Know thine enemies, but also know thy friends
by PolemicAcademic
Summary: A collection of stories in which Lestrade and Sherlock investigate cases with John and discover some unexpected things about the doctor. Rated for language.
1. Dari

A/N: I had a thought whilst pondering one of my other Sherlock fics: what if John had hidden skills that even Sherlock wouldn't have thought to deduce? It turns out that Dr Watson is far more than a blogging, running, sharp-shooting Medical Officer...he's also brilliant with people. Written because Martin Freeman always seems unfailingly courteous in interviews, and I'm convinced that if anyone were ever fortunate enough to meet the character of J.H. Watson, he would be exactly the same.

* * *

As they pulled up to the mosque, Lestrade turned to face John and Sherlock in the back seat of the unmarked car. "Okay. This mosque is quite often used by people from the Afghan community, so no inappropriate questions, Sherlock. John, you should be fine, they've got no problem with British soldiers. The last time I was here, Jenkins-you know, the one from 2 Para?-came with me. They couldn't shake his hand quickly enough-lots of them left when things got really bad with the insurgency, because they supported the Northern Alliance when the Taliban was coming back into Mazar-e-Sharif. Least that's what they told me. There's only one person left to speak to who was here at the time of the Cockburn Street murder, so it's her we'll be speaking to."

As they unfolded themselves from the car, Sherlock shared a serious glance with John, letting him know that he was not about to make light of the conflict. John was grateful for that fact as they made their way up the steps to be greeted by a gently smiling man. Seeing Greg and Sherlock looking interestedly at the hat perched atop his head, John leaned in, whispering. "It's called a _kirkuli_. Means he's an elder in the community, only people that are really respected are given them."

Nodding in acknowledgement, they made their way through to the reception room, John stopping to take off his shoes as he went. Watching him closely, the man spoke in soft, accented English. "You know your customs. Your bearing is very straight-you were a soldier, in the war?"

Looking slightly uncomfortable, John turned to face him. "Yes, I was-a doctor, with a unit based in Kandahar. I've not been in the army for three years now. I was...hurt."

Inclining his head and nodding, the man motioned them through to the main room of the small complex. "My mother, Hajar. I'm afraid she does not speak much English-only Dari. I will translate for you."

Sherlock and Greg both turned their heads sharply to their right as John spoke up yet again. "We should be alright, I think." Smiling softly, he turned to the woman. Placing his right hand above his heart, fingers slightly splayed, he leaned forward, beginning to form words that, although unfamiliar to his friends, were clearly understood by the seated woman. Her face lit up as he began his conversation:

"_Salaam aleikum, Hajar._ _Manda na bashi. Chetor ast e?_" He continued to murmur gentle questions, before realising that neither Sherlock nor Greg had interrupted yet.

Noticing his friends gaping at him, John turned his head slightly, a grin forming on his face. "Sherlock...how on Earth did you not deduce that I speak fluent Dari? It comes in really handy when you're running clinics..."

With that, Captain John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and the Royal Army Medical Corps, turned back to the smiling woman, crouching beside her to hear what she had to say. The elder chuckled, joining in the conversation and translating for the others, as the detective and the inspector took their seats and watched John charm her. Evidently, his care for his patients extended far beyond addressing their ills: he had obviously decided, thought Sherlock, that in order to be holistic, one had to understand the rest of their lives as well.


	2. Author's Note

A/N: Some definitions that silly old me forgot to put in the fic itself:

_Salaam aleikum_-Hello.

_Manda na bashi_-May you not be tired (a formal greeting).

_Chetor ast e?_-How are you?

Oh, the wonders of the internet! Do you think I should continue with this story and add more skills to John's repertoire? Please review, too!


	3. Rock Climbing

After his experience at the mosque, Sherlock had been determined to keep _deducing _John in order to avoid the trap of complacency as far as his flatmate's skills were concerned. Unfortunately, John clearly had other ideas, taking a great deal of childish delight in actually surprising him. Quite why he was focusing on this whilst hanging precariously from a twenty-foot cliff somewhere near Weston Super-Mare, he did not know. All that mattered was that John, all five feet seven of him, was currently a good deal further down than him, negotiating the outcrop at the mid-point of the rock face with a chipper kind of elegance.

"You alright up there, Sherlock? You look as if you're hanging on for dear life."

"And you're not, I suppose?"

After a few minutes of looking down at John, who had managed to belay round the jagged rock and was holding on to a chink in the granite _with one hand_ whilst effortlessly stepping into another fissure, Sherlock gave up looking. He heard the familiar clack of footsteps on the pebbles below and, gritting his teeth, began to make a tentative beeline for solid ground.

Peering up from the shingle beach at the foot of the sheer drop, John directed him to the left, giving him tips on the best hand and foot holds on the trickiest bits of the path. With no choice but to follow his best friend's directions, Sherlock straightened his back, flicking his head to the left and down as the doctor called out which move to make next. Exasperated, hands muddied and green with a fine layer of lichen, Sherlock chose to jump the last eight feet from a hanging position.

Brushing the dust from his coat, he glared balefully down at John, who was regarding him with a peculiar half-smile and the cocked head he usually reserved for patients under the age of ten who might require a lollipop to keep them from squirming off their mothers' laps. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"What's up with you, Sherlock?" Receiving no answer, he sighed. "We're on the beach, so we need to go north to get to the cave for the next cipher."

"Mm." With that, Sherlock strode away, leaving John to half-run to catch him up. Whirling round snappishly at the tug on his sleeve, Sherlock stopped dead in front of John as the waves lapped at the shale.

"Sherlock! What _is_ your problem?" John bit out, irritated at the sudden worsening in the detective's mood. At the sideways glance from the dark-haired man, his face cleared, a chuckle bubbling up in his throat and a sweet smile forming on his lips. "You're annoyed because you didn't deduce that I can rock-climb, aren't you?"

With a slight incline of the head which John took to mean 'you're right', the taller man enquired, "Where did you learn? It won't have been the army..." He trailed off, sorting through his memory banks to find a plausible solution.

"I did a summer as a camp counsellor in America before I started uni; one of the prerequisites was an outward bound course, so I took climbing, hiking, mountaineering and abseiling as my Duke of Edinburgh activities that year. No great mystery, Sherlock-just a kid who didn't particularly want to spend his free time at home and played a lot of sport instead..."

John loped off along the beach towards their quarry, leaving Sherlock dumfounded in his wake.


	4. Singing I: Greg

A/N: Not case-related, but a well-rounded doctor is always better to have on your side than one that had no life outside of his studies. I say this having known medical students from the year dot. I liked the idea of John as a singer, and as an expert mosher!

* * *

Greg smiled as John slid gratefully into the passenger seat of his car, hugging himself tightly as the cold of December seeped into his bones. "Cheers for the lift, Greg. It'd take hours to get across London in this weather-everyone's taking tubes or cabs."

"No problem, mate. Fancy some music?"

"Yeah! Yeah, why not. I've not done that in a while."

"When was the last time?" Greg asked, curious.

"Bombing down a dirt track in a Hummer in Helmand, blasting Hendrix out of the stereo. The base was so massive you needed a car to get around it, and it was just me and another three medics, air-guitaring and pogoing our heads off..." Shaking his head ruefully, John grinned as an appreciative smile lit up Greg's face as he bent to change the station. As neither of them were feeling like Hendrix at that precise moment, Greg skipped the rock channels, flipping past the crap pop of his godkids' generation as fast as he could. He settled on Radio 2.

"Radio 2, Greg? Like a bit of Terry in the mornings, do you?" John's smile was let of a smile than a wicked smirk, and Greg joyfully stuck two fingers up at him as he turned the wheel. Soon, whatever prog-rock monstrosity had been playing ended, and Sam Cooke's mellifluous voice drifted out of the speakers. Greg was fixed on navigating the madness of Piccadilly Circus when he heard something coming from his left. Stopping at the lights, he looked over. John was quietly singing along, hitting every note and sending a tingle down his spine. Feeling Greg's eyes upon him, his head snapped up, a fierce blush spreading across the apples of his cheeks.

"Nah, nah, don't be embarrassed! You've got a lovely voice."

John snorted, shaking his head and turning to look out of the passenger side window.

"John. I mean it. Where'd you learn to sing like that?"

"I never really _learned_ as such-I never had lessons or anything like that, but I sang in a capella groups and musicals when I was at uni. I didn't sing that much after graduation. Wasn't much space for it in the army unless you were in one of the bands."

"You could always start again, y'know. Plenty of choirs and things around your neck of the woods. In fact," (at this point, Greg looked downright conspiratorial), "if you want a bit more of a gentle introduction, some friends of mine are putting together a carolling group at Covent Garden this year. It's for charity, so there's no pressure."

Looking doubtful, John wiggled his head from side to side. "You really think I could sing again?"

"Yep. Bloody hell, John, I can keep a beat but I can't sing to save myself."

At John's quizzical look, Greg smiled. "I was always the drummer."

Nodding, the younger man turned his eyes to the man in the driver's side. "Okay. I'll give it a shot."

Three days later, after the group's first rehearsal, he got a text from Marie-Anne asking him where he'd found 'the blonde one with the stunning voice'. Two minutes after that, he received one from John.

"_Only gone and got a bloody solo._"


	5. Singing II: Sherlock

A/N: This is corny in the extreme, but it had to be done. This is NOT slash, merely a very strong friendship in which Sherlock is learning to appreciate that normality doesnt always mean inanity, and John is learning that Sherlock can actually appreciate other things about him outside of his ability to put up with eyeballs in the microwave.

* * *

As he looked up from his slide for the first time in three hours, Sherlock peered to his right. Upon finding John absent from his usual place in the squashy armchair closest to the fire, he hopped off the stool, meandering through to the kitchen-John was forever leaving mundane notes on the _fridge door_ of all places, with moronic little titbits of information on them. "Gone to get milk." "If you blow up the toaster before I get back from thenight shift, I swear I will wring your neck, and bugger my Hippocratic Oath." "Left some soup in the fridge; bloody well eat it this time, would you?" (He had. It was John's 'winter minestrone', whatever that was. He'd looked up to discover himself mopping up the dregs with a hunk of bread...what was _wrong_ with him?)

This time, it was different.

"If you want to hear some carols, stand at the corner of Covent Garden covered market in front of the Opera House. They start at 7."

Checking his watch, he could see it was half past six. At a strong rap on the front door, he whirled around, crossing the floor in a few steps. Yanking it open, he was surprised to find Lestrade standing on the threshold, in warm jacket, jeans and walking boots. "Did you get John's note? Thought I'd come and cajole you into actually following orders for once." Wrinkling his nose in distaste at the teasing smile working its' way over Greg's features, Sherlock sniffed.

"I hardly think you can cajole me, Detective Inspector."

"Oh really? No cases until the New Year unless you come and see the carollers."

Sighing, Sherlock strode over to the sofa, where he'd haphazardly thrown his coat and scarf in a fit of pique the day before. They swept out of the door and down the stairs without a word to each other.

Stepping out of the taxi, Sherlock and Greg picked their way over the cobbles, hoping to avoid the black ice whilst quickening their pace as the snow started to fall in drifting flakes. They could hear the singers striking up a tune that sounded as though it was in Old French, a charming chorus of 'Noel Nouvelet'. After that, 'O Come Emmanuel', 'We Three Kings' _and_ 'The Angel Gabriel', the taller man all but growled at his companion with a testy shake of the head. "This isn't going anywhere, Lestrade! We could be-"

Interrupting, and hooking a hand round Sherlock's collar to turn him to the side, Greg looked up at him with a strange half-smile on his face. "Your favourite carol is 'I Wonder As I Wander', because you like the fact that it takes talent to sing it well. John told me. Come on, mate. One more, eh?" At Lestrade's nod towards the assembled mass of singers, Sherlock felt strangely compelled to turn. Pivoting slowly, he heard the opening notes being sung in a strong tenor. As he relaxed into the melody, his eyes fell on the man in the middle of the second row, positioned halfway up the steps.

It was John. His sandy hair glinted in the winter moonlight, and he looked for all the world as though the cold night air around him didn't exist. As he reached the crescendoing half-octave leap in the last cycle, he caught sight of Sherlock. With the corners of his mouth turning up, his voice sounded brighter than ever.

Sherlock watched and marvelled at his friend. It seemed that John had yet more skills of which he had no inkling. He wondered idly if he could bring himself to ask Mycroft whether or not John sang when he was out of the house.


	6. Martial Arts

Sherlock Dari drabble Chapter 5

A/N: This is something I think it would be brilliant to see in the series. John always seems unflappable and kind, so it's really easy to forget that he's almost certainly a bit of a bad-ass. After all, why else would a doctor in a unit where sidearms can only be used for _self_-defence be such a good sharp-shooter? There will be more surprised!Sherlock in later chapters, but it looks like it could be enlightening to see John through other people's eyes as well.

* * *

It had started off as routine as any case with Sherlock Holmes at its centre could be; look at the body, deduce the details, hop in the car and chase the perpetrator down through some dark alleyway or other. However, by the time Greg, Sally and Sherlock had realised that the secretary who seemed to have murdered her boss with poisoned massage oil was more than a pretty face, she had hired thugs to protect her. This had resulted in all three of them being abducted and put in the back of a Transit van. Sally was staring fixedly ahead, trying not to let her boss see her shake; Greg was silently seething at the indignity of being forced into his own handcuffs; and Sherlock was out cold, blood oozing from a nasty wound to his temple after an unfortunate remark about the Russian one's parentage. There were four of them, Greg counted. He'd already given them names in his head-a strategy of his in dealing with people who made his blood run cold; the Rusky would be Red Square (nasty, violent and brutish).

His stomach lurched in spite of him as their quarry opened the doors to reveal (you guessed it) a cold, empty warehouse with corrugated iron walls and a concrete floor. The chill February wind whistled in through the gaps, sending Sally into a huddled bundle, as Sherlock was dumped unceremoniously further along the wall. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his belly, Greg watched as Sally and Sherlock were bound to the pipes behind them with a rough sisal rope. He forced himself not to flinch as Red Square and Fosters hauled him upright by the shoulders and did the same to him.

"How long do you plan on keeping us here, Miss Marchand?"

The blonde woman's eyes flicked to her left, and Greg was thrown backwards by the force of a meaty fist ploughing into the side of his face. Sally gasped as he blinked away the stars that crept into his vision.

"Thought I'd better ask."

She smiled, feral and cold. "Guard them. I've got a plane to catch."

He had no idea how long they'd been sitting there, but dusk had come and gone, with Sherlock waking groggily at some point in the night. They'd taken it in turns to talk to one another about-well, _anything_, really-to keep each other awake and alert, so it was with great trepidation that Greg listened as a crunching noise sounded from outside. Before Red Square, Fosters and Whisky Galore had a chance to react, the door to the warehouse had creaked open. Weak winter sunshine spilled in through the gap, and Red Square went down like a sack of potatoes. _Face first-that's got to hurt_.

Sherlock's mouth crinkled up at the corners as he watched the onslaught, Sally sitting gobsmacked beside him. John scythed through the air, planting both feet into Whisky Galore's chest and dealing him a nasty blow across the windpipe. Landing on the balls of his feet, he whipped around in a perfect roundhouse kick, shuffling forwards to wrest Fosters's gun from his hands. He cracked him across the back of the leg, smirking grimly as he fell. "John-what...?"

John turned to Greg on the other side of the room, surveying the damage as he went. "Did some training with the SAS, donkey's years ago now; they must have needed a new Medical Officer, 'cause they went to the RAMC and asked us if anyone wanted to see if they were tough enough. I volunteered, just for shits and giggles really, with two mates of mine. One of them dropped out with a nasty concussion after three weeks; Mike and I both passed, but I left to go back to the 5th Northumberlands. He stayed, got blown up in Fallujah in 2003." He sighed. The expression on his face shifted from one of regret to one of coldest fury as a shadow loomed behind him. He slammed his elbow into Fosters's ribs, wheeling round to punch him square in the throat. He went down with barely a groan.

John was halfway over to the three of them before he realised that both Sally and Greg were staring at him agog. Sherlock, sounding as unconcerned as ever, jerked his head towards the other captives. "Help Donovan first, she's in severe shock. Krav Maga?"

"A mixture of Krav Maga, Kung Fu, jiu-jitsu and capoiera, to be exact. Deleted that, had you?"

"I did _not_ delete it, I merely forg-Sally, he won't harm _you_. He just wants to check you over." Sherlock looked at Donovan with a peculiar mixture of pity and exasperation as she shrank away from John's hands when they reached for the ropes that bound her. Putting them up in a gesture of surrender, he knelt beside her. "Greg, if I untie you, do you think you could untie Sally for me?" He avoided her gaze as he set about working the knot free and slipping the rope down Lestrade's grazed wrists. As they stood shakily, leaning against one another, John planted his feet firmly on the ground in front of Greg. "It wasn't lethal force, if that's what you're both thinking. I only kill when there's no alternative. In this case, having them out cold for long enough that your backup would arrive was more than adequate..."

Greg nodded, leaning forward so John could peer into his face, oh-so-gently palpating his cheekbone and eye socket. "Nothing's broken, but you'll have a hell of a shiner for the next week. Which of our benighted guests was it? Larry, Curly or Moe?"

Grinning at the reference, Greg winked. "Larry, but I decided to call them Red Square, Whisky Galore, Fosters and Bacardi Breezer." Snorting, John turned to Sherlock, who waved a hand dismissively at him as expected before (entirely unexpectedly) nodding to Sally, who had curled up at the back of one of the police cars. Shrinking into herself as he approached, she looked up at him with a painfully familiar thousand-yard stare. He crouched beside her, speaking softly and remembering not to make any sudden movements.

"Sally, can I take your pulse for a sec? I need to see how shocky you are." Trembling, she extended her wrist, staring straight ahead as John counted the beats.

"You're not a violent man."

"Sorry?"

She spoke slightly louder this time. "You're not a violent man, John. You're-you're _good_. Seeing you like that was _frightening_-it's not _supposed_ to be you doing the enforcing. Sherlock, I might have expected it from, but not you. You were," she hiccupped, beginning to cry now, "you were so cold."

"I used to be a soldier, Sally. I was a pacifist before I went to war, but I came to the conclusion that it was better to be armed and able to defend people than not to be armed at all. That's what I meant when I said I would kill if necessary. If one of them had had a gun to your head, and he hadn't put it down when I told him to, I'd have given him two more chances. When they were up, I'd have shot him to save you, because you couldn't have defended yourself. What's more, I wouldn't have regretted it. I remember every person I've ever killed, because I think to exonerate myself, to justify killing someone as if it was just another thing I did, would be disrespectful. In the end, I've only ever killed three. Two of those were on my side. I couldn't do anything for them and they were in pain, so they asked me to do it and I did. I had my gun on me today, but I chose not to use it because I knew using my hands would be less damaging." Nodding shakily, she sat back, letting the paramedics help her up.

Standing up from where he'd been murmuring into Sally's ear, John turned to speak to them as Sherlock strode over, looking every inch the rake despite the dark trail down his cheek.

"Chinese?"

"God, yes. Night Greg." (A shout from the back of another ambulance told him Greg had heard.)

He spared a glance behind him as Sally was wrapped in a thick orange blanket, a pulse ox monitor on her right ring finger.

"Night Sally." She nodded, still dazed, and dropped her gaze back to the floor.

"Did you tell her the real reason you learned martial arts?"

"'Course not, don't be an idiot. Why would I tell Regina George over there something like that?"

"Who the hell is Regina George?"

"Never mind."

* * *

A/N: So what is the real reason why John learned martial arts, and why didn't he at least tell Greg the truth? Answers on a postcard (or, preferably, in a review). If you would like a chapter explaining it later on, just say the world and I shall attempt to write one!

PS: I wonder why John would know who Regina George is?


	7. Author's Note Number Two

A/N: Hello all,

I'm sorry to have updated a new chapter, only for you all to find out that it is me making an excuse! Apologies for the late appearance of this chapter; I've been getting used to a new job, starting a course, sorting things out for another I'm starting later this year, and winding things up from my last job. The resolution to the Martial Arts story arc is coming very soon, I promise! However, the explanation for John's Mean Girls reference (bonus points to all the lovely reviewers who got it) will be along later in the series.


	8. Martial Arts II

Sherlock Dari drabble Chapter 6

Martial Arts II

A/N: Here's the chapter on why John began learning martial arts in the first place. Some background to the piece: I am taking it as read that John is the age he looks (mid-thirties), and only a couple of years older than Sherlock. If we take it that he's completed about ten years' service in the Army by the time he meets the Consulting Detective, and he'd completed his six years of medical school by the age of 25 (starting at the age of 18), he'd have about a year's basic training etc (I think) before being deployed. That would make him 27 on his first posting, and 38 when the series begins.

My headcanon states that John would have been into music from an early age, particularly given that he sings, and that the whole rap craze would have passed him by in the 80s. I'm convinced that he would have been into ska, 2-tone, Motown, reggae and the like. If John was from an ordinary background, which I assume he was, he would most likely have commuted to uni; this makes me think he grew up in or near London.

This fic is set in 1985, so John would have been about 13; it's set just after the Second Brixton and Broadwater Farm riots which resulted at least partly from racial tensions between local populations and the Metropolitan Police. Local people in these areas quite often came from African-Caribbean backgrounds, and some perceived the police to be inherently racist, even after the 'sus' law (which allowed police to stop and search people suspected of intending to commit a crime and was disproportionately used on BME young people) was repealed in 1981.

**Warning: some racist language that some readers might find offensive. I don't like writing these things down, but for the sake of historical accuracy I've put them in. **

* * *

Greg groaned as he laid his head against the wall of the lock-up with an audible bang. As Sally banged on the door and shouted for help, John shook his head minutely at her. Admitting defeat, she sank down to sit cross-legged on the floor, before peering intently at John's messenger bag. Battered tan leather, it reminded her of a school satchel, but it wasn't that that had caught her eye. "Is that an Anti-Nazi League badge?"

"Yeah, I was a member when I was a kid. I haven't used this bag in a while. Needed a new one, then found this at the bottom of the wardrobe."

"Why were you a member of the ANL?"

"I grew up in Balham, so it was difficult to avoid the skinheads in London. A friend of mine nearly got beaten up when we were thirteen, just after the '85 riots."

Noticing that Greg was looking at him with an expression more commonly used on suspects withholding information, John quirked an eyebrow in his general direction. "What?"

"You didn't start learning martial arts when you were in the army, did you?"

Shocked, Watson turned to him. "How'd you work that one out?"

"Cause 'while you were doing it in London, I was doing it in Bristol."

Grinning, Greg stuck a hand out for a high-five, getting a satisfying smack in return.

"What made you notice it, Sally?"

"I grew up where there were skinheads too. My brother got beaten up by the National Front in '78, and I was still getting called names by a couple of the estate kids until about 1989. Whenever you saw that in town, you knew you could go in and be safe when it all kicked off. What happened with your friend?"

_ John pulled his messenger bag off the counter, thanking Rex before ambling out of the record shop. He'd managed to get hold of a first edition Chris Clark LP, and spent a pretty penny on it too; records was all paper rounds were good for when you were 13-the girls liked legwarmers and scaring their dads with Madonna, not going to the cinema with boys when they could nick Advocaat from their parents instead. Turning the corner onto Electric Avenue, John frowned as he spotted his mate Dukie, surrounded by skinheads in outdated White Power t-shirts, looming over him and swiping his Rasta crown from the top of his dreads. Dukie backed up, shaking his head and turning to leave. One of them blocked his path, the others yanking his arms up behind his back. Dropping his records, John started forwards._

"_Oi!," he bellowed. "Fuck off! Get away from him, you fascist bastards! Gerroff 'im!"_

_ He stopped dead as one of them turned to him, eyes glazed and cold. "This ain't none of your business, jungle-lover. What, 's this monkey your mate?" All four of them made monkey noises, leering down at him, smirking at the barely five-foot boy as he squared up to them, hiding his fear under his hard man facade. They advanced threateningly, but stopped as Mr Lester came out of the corner shop, brandishing the baseball bat he kept behind the counter. The riots had only died down a month ago, and you could never be too careful round the skinheads. Most of them went out of their way to avoid White Power, but some of them were still lamenting the passing of the National Front and writing sick graffiti in the park about that poor man Blair Peach. _

"_G'wan, boys. Ya don' wanta be treatenin' me, j'ah hear? I got a baseball bat an' I ain't afraid ta use it-git'way fram de boy!"_

_ Jessop Lester had always been a big man, and he still made an imposing sight even as his dreads went grey and white around the beads. He spoke in Jamaican patois, his voice ringing out across the small group as the young skinheads scarpered. Sighing, Jessop closed the shop, locking the door and leading Dukie to his front door. Putting a large, gnarled hand on John's shoulder, he guided him along the road to the tube. "If you wanta be a part o' our culture, you gotta learn to defend yaself. They gonta keep callin' you a monkey-lover until de day you die, and dey gonna take kids like Duke Drummond wit you. Ya small, but you not stupid! See you next week, lickle man." _

_ Frowning as Jessop pushed him into the station, John resolved to learn how to defend himself and Dukie from people like the skinheads who'd been prepared to beat up two thirteen year-old boys. He looked down at his hand, feeling a weight there. Jessop had remembered to pick up his records for him. Seeing a glint in the bottom of the bag, John reached in. Rex had winked at him as he handed him it, and now he knew why. Nestled in the sleeve of his other purchase-The Wailers-was a pin badge. _

_ The lettering was tiny, but he'd seen the arrow-shaped symbol plastered around the city since he was a kid. It read simply._

"_**Anti-Nazi League**__"_

Snapping back to the present, John smiled reassuringly at Sally, who was clearly doing some remembering of her own. "So you started learning it so you could defend yourself because you liked being in Brixton?" A rare smile spread across Donovan's face.

Greg interjected, "I'm sure I've heard the name Duke Drummond before now."

"Yeah, you will have. He's the Green Party councillor for Brixton, he was one of the advisors on the response to the riots last summer. Wonder if he still listens to 'Get Up, Stand Up'..."

Smiling, John hauled himself up off the floor as Sherlock, grinning down at them, dropped a crowbar with a clang on the smooth concrete of the forecourt.

* * *

A/N II: The patois is probably wrong-it's written as it's spoken, and is based on that which I learned when I lived in an area in England that's predominantly Afro-Caribbean. It was AWESOME, and I learned how to play Calypso steel drums. I had a fantastic time. If I've offended anyone with it, you have my full apologies, and I will take it down if need be.

Blair Peach was a teacher who died during an anti-fascist counter-demonstration in 1979. There were allegations that the head injury that killed him was inflicted by a rubberised police radio, and the definitive story of what happened is hard to come by. I am anti-fascist. If I had been around at the time, I would have been wearing a lapel pin too.


	9. Field Medicine I

Sherlock Dari Drabble Chapter 7: Field Surgery I

A/N: Although Sherlock and Greg would know about John's skills as a surgeon, Anderson and Donovan are so snide that I can see them disbelieving him when Sherlock calls his medical training into use on cases. Because I am a horrid person, I shall thus prove that John is awesome by writing fics in which he saves people.

* * *

They had been about to leave the flat, convinced that their robbery suspect had managed to beat them to the pass and run away, when a strangled cry drifted out of the back bedroom. The lack of hidey-holes had convinced Dimmock to allow one of his younger officers, a lad just out of the puppy-walking stage, to start the search as the older ones wrapped up in the bathroom. Dashing down the corridor, James reminded himself that he had never followed traditions without questioning them thoroughly first. Now he knew why. His gut told him something had gone _seriously _effing wrong.

Rounding the corner, his eyes widened in horror. The kid was lying on the afghan, knees squeezed up to his chest, pressing very hard on his own left thigh. The pool of blood underneath his lower half was spreading steadily. Swallowing bile, the DI stuck his head around the door and bellowed.

"**JOHN! **Sergeant Donovan, get Doctor Watson, now. NOW!"

The sneer was shocked off her face as she reeled back, pelting down the stairs at full tilt.

Thirty seconds later, Dimmock, pressing on the wound himself and trying not to look at the butcher's knife not two metres to his left, was alerted to John's presence by a gentle shadow falling across him. Saying nothing, John motioned for the paramedics, who had been posted on scene during the raid, to wait in the doorway as they prepared the stretcher.

He knelt beside the frightened boy, and Dimmock could almost feel him taking in the details in nanoseconds: how much blood he'd lost, the location of the wound, his consciousness level, breathing, pulse, shock...

"What's your name, mate?" John's voice was gentle and light, and it instantly soothed the patient.

"B-Blair. Blair C-Cumming. Am I gonna die? My mum, oh God, my Mum, I didn't tell her I loved her this morning-" He swallowed nervously, screwing his eyes shut as though that could stop the hysterical sob welling up in his throat. Dimmock looked up at just the right moment to see John gazing down at the young man, eyes full of compassion and something close to pain. His expression made him look older and wiser than anyone else he knew, even his granddad-it was a stupid thought, gone as soon as it had come, but he knew his admiration for John Watson had just increased about a hundredweight. Turning calmly to the paramedics, John opened his mouth, crisply rattling off a precise list of instructions-_orders_, James realised-which they followed without question.

"You are not going to die, d'you hear me? Not on the floor in a dingy bedsit. You're going to be old and grey and surrounded by a dozen grandkids, understand? I need to sedate you to help you, okay? Let's do something about that leg."

The boy nodded, setting his jaw as John slipped the IV into the back of his hand without even looking. Sally was hovering in the background, looking green around the gills, struck dumb by the doctor's near-silent work. As Blair's eyes slipped closed, John was already reaching for the scalpel being proffered by the younger paramedic. The elder of the two attached the leads for the heart monitor and the oxygen mask to the kid's chest, kneeling next to Dimmmock on his other side, facing the door.

"Clamps, please, Jenny. Bill-can you apply pressure to the top of the artery? He'll start bleeding red ink soon..."

Hands flying over the young man's clammy skin, John worked quickly, retracting the skin and muscle and isolating the nick in the artery that was pulsing crimson over his gloved fingers. Snapping the clamps around the top of the artery, John set about a temporary repair, sprinkling some kind of powder that Sherlock had just handed him from his own kit over the vessel. Still bleeding sluggishly, it stopped, merely oozing now. Bill peered over interestedly.

"Pixie dust?"

"Yep. Forgot I had that. Thank fuck it's got a seven-year shelf life..."

"Pixie dust?" Sally's face had contorted into a gormlessly confused expression.

John rocked back on his heels as he finished packing the wound, thoroughly unbothered by Donovan's shock at his seamless transition from jumpered blogger and crime scene surveyor to Captain J.H. Watson, an army medic of considerable experience and gravitas.

"It's like Bondaweb for people. It makes a temporary barrier that mimics veins or muscles-it holds things until you can get a patient to a vascular surgeon. Speaking of: Tommy's?" The paramedics nodded in the affirmative, Bill taking Blair's legs, Dimmock and Jenny gripping his sides and John gently resting his head against his sternum as they eased him onto the trolley. With Blair stable and sleepy, just beginning to come round from the morphine, John rested his hand on the orange blanket, fingers just brushing the lad's as they twitched. Squeezing lightly, he kept his hand curled loosely around the bony digits as they hefted him down the stairs and out into the dusk. John jumped in the front without asking, Dimmock leaping into the back as the Yarders stood ranged out across the grass, numb and still.

After the handover, during which a number of impressed murmurs had come from the general direction of the vascular consultant on call, John slumped into a violently-coloured plastic chair in the waiting room, adrenaline leaving and filling him with a familiar bereft feeling best described by the word 'oof'.. John yawned and exhaled slowly, stretching his shoulders and rolling his neck with a satisfying _crk. _He looked up as the double doors opened, pushed by a thin, prematurely greying woman with startling green eyes. This must be Blair's mother-why did he recognise her? As she passed him, she stopped. As she turned, her eyes widened.

"John Watson? _Captain_ John Watson?"

Frowning at her, John stood up. "You must be Blair's mum. He'll be alright-the vascular surgeon on call's one of the best in the city, and he's a hell of a strong one. The wound's not too deep, he'll be on his feet in a couple of days. You're remarkably calm, if I may say so."

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Shaking his head slowly, John scrunched up his forehead as he tried to sort through his memory banks to find out to whom he was talking. "Oh. Oh! You're Cameron's mum-Blair was only 15 when I met him, _that_'s why I didn't recognise him. How's he doing?"

"Very well, thanks dear. A wife, three kids, a dog and a job he enjoys, thanks in no small part to you disobeying orders to stay behind and finish up on his arm."

Her eyes twinkled as she looked sideways at him, and John had the good grace to look abashed. "I'm a doctor. It's what I do. Every time someone brings up something I've done, I get the urge to tell them to try and ignore a sick person when they've taken an oath. People seem to think I'm ether really brave or very stupid, when the reality is I'm not much of either. I'm glad Cammy's doing well, though. Did he and Allie get married, then?"

Angela nodded with a smile, hugging John in a very Mrs Hudson sort of way before poking her head around the open door. "Thank you again. You take care now. When you go back, look out for yourself."

John smiled sadly to himself, turning to leave and wincing as his bad shoulder reacted to the cold of the ambulance bay. It was time for a hot bath, a cup of tea, and a Firefly marathon...and five whole minutes of savouring the look of shock on Sally Donovan's smug face when the paramedics had deferred to _him_ instead of her.

* * *

A/N II: I don't know if pixie dust exists. I'm sure I've heard of it being used in combat situations, but if not, I claim dramatic license. Guilty as charged, m'lud.


	10. Field Medicine II

A/N: Here's another one, ladies and gents. First things first: thank you to **sakura-blossom62, Azteka** and the two lovely people who PM'd me to confirm about haemostatic powders. Thank you also to **AkoyaMizuno** for your very understanding review. It was **hjohn302 **who mentioned that it would be nice to see Greg flummoxed for a change; as he's a very experienced DI, he ought to be pretty hard to shock, but if anyone is skilled enough to do it, it's our very own Captain/Doctor/Field Surgeon Extraordinaire, John Watson.

I mention Sally's hair only because I love Vinette Robinson's. I think she does such a brilliant job of making Donovan both really unlikeable and very human.

* * *

It had been an interesting chase, thought Greg as he dashed through the loading bay, swerving around the freight containers and narrowly avoiding crossing paths with Donovan. She, Sherlock, John, Gregson and himself had all taken a different direction in which to search, fanning out from the RV point at the centre to track their murderer. The RV point itself had been John's idea, as had carrying walkie-talkies due to the sheer size of the dockside yard. He had stood, straight and proud alongside him and Gregson, calmly assigning NATO phonetic call-signs and setting up a system of alerts and code words. Using their initials, he had devised a tactical plan that involved grouping senior and experienced officers with newer, greener ones whose alertness might be heightened by their eager attitude. As the two DIs set out the groups, John had explained their codewords as the uniformed officers strapped themselves into bulky Kevlar.

"If you spot either Borthwick or Casper, use 'Target Acquired'. If you see them moving towards another team, use 'Incoming' and the call-sign of whoever's leading. If you're in trouble, use the usual-'Urgent Assistance Required'. Got it?"

The assembled throng had murmured and nodded its assent, calmly spreading out in compass-point directions, heads down, weapons and batons raised. As Greg rounded the corner, a message crackled through on the walkie-talkies.

"Romeo Charlie to Sierra Delta One, incoming, suspect is on the move."

Rory Calhoun, a promising young sergeant from Charing Cross nick, had obviously taken John's military efficiency to heart. Message relayed, he disappeared from the airwaves, leaving them in the silence of the night. Greg (on his own, as the only firearms-ready officer on duty), pricked up his ears as the sounds of an almighty scuffle to his right. The scratching and metallic thuds died down, and he was just about to continue, torch and gun poised in front of him, when a soft whimper attracted his attention. Peering 'round the corner, his eye was met with a bleeding bundle topped with luxuriant curly hair. _Sally_.

"Golf Lima Gold Command to all units: urgent assistance and a medic required to the north corner. Sierra Delta One's been injured, currently semi-conscious."

Flicking the transmission button on his radio, Lestrade advanced, a strange feeling of unease creeping up his spine as he knelt beside her.

"Sally? Sally, open your eyes!" He was rewarded with a pained grimace and a flickering in her eyelids. "Sir?" She was slurring-he noted the crimson stain matting the left hand side of her hair at the temple-as running footsteps echoed through the surrounding gangways. Sherlock and John converged on them, John hefting his kit down from his good shoulder. Just as he did so, rapid gunshots began to ricochet off the surrounding metal boxes. Scooping her up into his arms and hunkering down behind the crate immediately to his left, John half-turned, yelling at Sherlock and Greg over the din.

"Find-ah, fuck, FIND HARD COVER! SHERLOCK, TO YOUR LEFT, GREG WITH ME!"

As gunshots and sparks flew past from Borthwick's stolen weapon, Greg scrambled into the shadows behind the container. He shivered as John's eyes met his. The gaze was unflinching navy and he shrank away as the shutters came down. He knew he was watching something quite rare, in John Watson's civilian life at least. The tunnel vision of war, a singular devotion to the task of keeping someone alive for _long enough_, had turned John's eyes from warm, twinkly windows into blank screens the colour of the desert night.

John reached out almost blindly, in a sequence he'd practiced so often he no longer had to think. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, ducking without so much as a blink as streams of hollow-point bullets whizzed overhead. He gently touched two fingers to Sally's wrist, murmuring to himself and turning towards his bag. Noting vitals for pulse and respiration on a scrap of paper, he began to card his fingers through her hair and drag his fingertips over the scalp in a methodical check for bumps and depressions in the skull.

Finding a nasty cut along her temple, he nodded, running his practised fingers over her neck, back, fingers, arms, trunk, cataloguing every inconsistency and filing it away. He gently pressed on her ribs, finding a discrepancy. He soothed her, calm and steadfast, as she squirmed under his probing hand. Prodding the area, he reached across to his bag, pulling out a scalpel, alcohol swabs, a bottle and a hypodermic. Completing the setup with a narrow plastic tube, John looked across Sally and found Greg staring at him as he did so.

When John spoke, his voice was not his own. It was imbued with a heavy tone, authoritative and clipped. Although John seemed the type for stating orders rather than drill-sergeant screaming, Greg could see why they had made him a Captain so quickly. An odd whine in his ears shut everything out, the thought of disobeying never crossing his mind. All the considerable attention of the commanding officer was focussed on him as John spoke, low and deadly serious.

"Greg, pull her shirt up just past her stomach. Good, now use those wipes to clean around where that bruise is and sanitise your hands while I draw up the local. Hold that-" (he pressed a piece of gauze into Greg's shaking fingers)"-and hold her hand. Sally, this is going to hurt but you'll be able to breathe properly once it's over. Keep your eyes fixed on Greg." It was only then that Lestrade noticed, feeling slightly sick, that Sally had been wheezing badly. She arched away from John's gloved fingers.

His face hardened minutely, and he gently but firmly held her torso in place, slipping the needle into the intercostal space between the fourth and fifth ribs. Waiting a few seconds, he slid it out, deftly swiping the scalpel over the skin and digging the point into the cavity. He made soft shushing noises as she cried out, pushing his index finger into the incision. He pressed the tube against the gap, smiling grimly as an audible 'pop' and a hiss followed in quick succession.

"Better?"

Clammy and pale-cheeked, Sally nodded. Greg and John listened intently as Gregson, who had been over the other side of the dockyard, yelled at Borthwick to put the gun down. The tramping of boots heralded the arrival of the ARU.

"If you want me, coppers, I'm gonna take some of your lot with me!"

Moments later, there was a second volley from the murder weapon, which zoomed over a perfectly unconcerned blonde head and a cringing silver one. A single round from an assault rifle and the deed was done.

Wordlessly holding his hand out for the gauze, John quickly snipped a cut into the centre, with a hole in the middle of the square. He fitted it round the tube, taping it in place to stop it from shifting, and stood up in a fluid movement to rattle off a sit-rep to the paramedics. Greg hung back in a daze as they loaded Donovan into an ambulance, Watson jumping in without so much as a 'please'.

John's medical prowess hadn't escaped him, certainly, but the night's events had convinced him that he was dealing with someone still at the top of his game. What had shocked him, quite apart from the level of confidence and skill on show, was the brutal efficiency of the thing. John had become a completely new man, one who was obviously used to performing surgeries in the middle of a firefight or a bomb blast and thought nothing of it any more. Bullets had bent the air around them, whistling through the air as the sparks singed their hair. John had simply carried on, the stalwart captain in an urban battlefield. It had been fearsome to watch; he knew he wouldn't have wanted to be on the end of a beasting from that particular CO.

Greg checked his watch.

The whole process had taken five minutes, all in.


	11. Field Medicine III

A/N: Field Medicine III is the last of the chapters on this subject, at least in this part of the story. The next one in the series follows straight on from this one. Having done some research, Commander Nelson's rank is the equivalent to a Lieutenant in the British Army; this is one rank below John, and is why she salutes him first and not the other way around. I thought it would be nice to introduce an interesting and intelligent OC, as well as fleshing out Gregson a wee bit. The next chapter will be from someone else's third person point of view, though I decided to write this chapter in the third person for story-flow reasons.

* * *

Screaming along the flyover at breakneck speed, blues and twos broadcasting the emerging crisis to the surrounding high-rises, Greg turned the wheel sharply and careened around the corner into the red brick terrace. Will Gregson was pale beside him, knuckles white on the handle to the left of his head as the saloon screeched to a halt. The street was a mess of rust-coloured dust and debris, and the smashed glass crunched under their feet as they stepped gingerly across the no-man's land created by the gas explosion manufactured in their latest murder scene. Although very few actual residents had been home, all the civilians having been asked to leave while SOCO did their stuff, it was clear that the Yard and the local nick at Golders Green had taken a hit. James summed it up, Greg's stomach swooping as they took in the blood and chaos before them.

"Shit. How many were bloody well in there?"

Detective Sergeants Manerjee and Cooper were waiting for them at the 20-metre cordon.

"No dead so far, we're waiting for confirmation from the doctor on scene on how many critical and majors we've got."

"Yeah, speaking of-where'd you lot find 'im? He's a demon, he is." Manerjee interjected.

Greg and Will spoke in unison, looking to one another with their brows wrinkled in confusion.

"Doctor?"

"Oh...of course!"

Greg's shaking finger pointed to a lithe, blue-coated form with a shock of madly curly hair, perched on a wall beside a shaky young copper, holding his arm rigid as Chris Anderson neatly splinted it, before sprinting off in the direction of the arriving ambulances.

An LAS commander came up beside them, Sherlock meeting the small knot of men at the next line of blue tape. "There's an Army medic on scene currently in the process of triage. He knows what he's doing, so if you wouldn't mind deferring to him, perhaps we can get these people out of here more quickly."

To a bystander, Sherlock's snapped message would have seemed like a peculiarly savage shock reaction. Thankfully, that particular paramedic had met Sherlock before, and was able to take it all in her stride. To Greg and Will, who knew the two men better, the pride underlying the irritable statement was unmistakeable.

"Doctor Watson's on form, then. Good, he's exactly what we need," murmured Greg.

At Will's raised eyebrow (the thought of the small man leading a company of strangers and co-ordinating the rescue effort being just on the wrong side of believable), Greg smiled.

"You've not seen John at work before, have you? Just because he looks like a softie, doesn't mean he's not fully battle-ready."

As Sherlock led them up to the last cordon at the epicentre of the blast, they caught sight of John. He was moving quickly from person to person, only stopping to shout instructions to the uniformed and plainclothes officers in the area. Some were bent over their colleagues, monitoring their vital signs or holding their hands; others were taping off evidence sites or comforting the walking wounded and sitting blankly on the adjacent garden walls. PC Cumming let out a groaned expletive as the man he'd been checking (a DC Shukman from the local nick), went limp underneath him.

"Aw, fuckin' hell. **DOC**! He's not breathin', what do I do again?"

At Blair's calm but urgent shout, John's head turned sharply. Running over, he knelt at the other side of the bleeding man. The hair at the nape of Greg's neck stood on end, Will frozen in place, as the same Captain's voice carried across the open space. Blair's back was ramrod straight, head cocked to one side as he took in John's instructions and watched him scissor his hands and press on the patient's chest at a phenomenal rate.

Watching John doing CPR was like watching a sniper take shots at tin cans. Each ad every downward thrust was completed with enough power and precision to take Will's breath away, and all four coppers stood back in wonderment as John snapped backwards and Blair forced air into his comrade's lungs.

John indicated that Blair should continue it until the paramedics could take over, nodding approvingly as the young man pumped the patient's chest at comparable speed. Standing up in one fluid motion and looking directly at the paramedic, John smiled grimly.

"Commander Nelson? Dr John Watson, formerly Captain Watson, RAMC."

Nodding and surveying the carnage with watchful eyes, Rosaline spoke crisply. "I had sort of guessed that, sir. I'm quite good at recognising ex-forces when I see them, especially the higher-ups." Rolling up her sleeve, she revealed a tattoo of Asclepius' rod, wound around an anchor and bordered with a diamond shape.

"Sub-Lieutenant Rosaline Nelson, formerly Royal Naval Medical Service. And no, before you ask, no relation to _that_ Nelson. I'm nowhere near that good at avoiding shrapnel, else I wouldn't be here instead of on the water."

Wincing in sympathy, John stood up straighter, receiving the four-finger salute with a respectful straight-fingered one of his own. "Right. No dead as yet, four critical including the one currently being-er, make that _just_ breathing and no more. Four critical, seven majors including two internal bleeds, two shockwave fractures, one nasty head wound, a pelvic fracture and a partial amputation, which I've already stabilised. Shall we?"

Spreading his hand to indicate the scene, John led the commander to the makeshift field hospital set up on the waste ground across from the last of the houses in the terrace. White SOCO tents had been placed together, with each type of casualty grouped under a sheet scribbled with a block of colour. Criticals had been left in situ, labelled with red sheets, majors had been evacuated and grouped under an orange banner. The more minor injuries and walking wounded, including the broken arms, concussions and fractured ankles, were huddled in the last tent under a blue banner and illuminated by the floodlights, blinking owlishly as Nelson directed the teams of paramedics through the regimented melee.

"You did all this in twenty minutes?" Will whispered as he stood, mouth agape, while the critical and majors were spirited out into the waiting ambulances and choppers. Blair appeared at Greg's right shoulder, shoulders squared and face set.

"Sir. Sir, ma'am. Sarge, Mr Holmes." Nodding to each of them in turn, the constable inclined himself in John's direction, then grimaced as he caught sight of the middle-aged SOCO with the deep arm wound. "Captain?" John's head swivelled, and Will took a closer look at him in the thick of it.

"Yes private, ah-sorry-Blair?"

Brow crinkling, the PC stood up straighter. "S'okay, sir. My brother said you might do that. That thing you did, to the guy with the glass in his arm..."

He shuffled his feet, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"It's okay, Blair. Think you've earned the right to ask, given that it was you who got Shukman breathing."

"Is that what you did to Cam? So they didn't have to take so much of 'is arm off?"

Surveying the lessening hubbub, John nodded, looking dreamily at a point somewhere over the heads of the assembled throng. "Sort of. That guy's injury was a shrapnel wound, a lot cleaner than an IED injury. No less severe though, and no less bloody painful." The last part came with a sideways look at Nelson, who smirked and directed her subordinates through the complex, ticking each casualty off on John's triage matrix as they passed.

Draped in bright orange shock blankets, the three men were gently herded into Greg's car as Gregson stood behind to begin the cleanup. Nodding to Nelson, John turned to leave, Sherlock falling into step behind him as Blair walked alongside, holding the door open before folding himself into the passenger seat.

Will shook his head at the retreating backs, wondering just what it would take to throw Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson off their stride.


	12. Poker Face II

This chapter directly follows on from the last, and is from PC Cumming's third person point of view, because he's both intelligent and perceptive for his age. There's quite a bit of hurt John, I'm afraid, and a very worried Sherlock.

Trauma centres in London are those with 24-hour access to an A&E consultant (or ER attending, for those of you across the Pond). The hospitals below actually are the major trauma centres for the city as detailed by the citywide Trauma Office. The chapter after this one follows on from it, and is where this story arc ends. It's probably not exactly usual to segue from one set of chapters to another, but it seemed to work together, and I thought I had better write them all in one in case my muse deserts me tomorrow.

* * *

As they crossed over the threshold into St Mary's (the worst casualties having been red-lined to King's College, St George's or the London, and the minors to smaller local hospitals), Blair could see the energy draining out of John as though someone had taken out the Energiser bunny's batteries. A brief spasm of pain crossed his face as he turned to the consultant on call to tell him that all the casualties had been directed to the other major trauma centres.

Nelson had insisted that they, as part of the incident themselves, had been driven over to that particular hospital in case they themselves required emergency treatment. John's poker face remained intact as he talked through the incident, mentioning any injuries to Sherlock and Blair that he thought might need attention. He was as straight-backed and attentive as ever, nodding calmly as the other man indicated the curtained bays through the left-hand set of double doors.

As he turned back to his friends, Blair noticed John's eyes sliding out of focus. On instinct, the young man started forward, flanked by Sherlock and closely followed by the consultant, as John slowly and gracefully slid to the floor. The full paleness of his face became visible under the harsh fluorescent lights as they surrounded him. Taking John's pulse at his carotid, Mr Evender yelled over his shoulder for a trauma team before peering worriedly at the army doctor's chest, which was already stuttering with the effort of drawing a deep breath. "PC Cumming, can you keep a check on his breathing, please?"

Nodding, Blair took hold of John's left hand, focusing intently on the staccato rise and fall, before stepping back as doctors and nurses descended, scooping their patient up onto a trolley and whisking him into the Resuscitation Room. The three of them followed in an anxious, silent huddle. Sherlock shrank into his coat, Greg putting a fatherly hand on his shoulder. As they ran the scissors through his shirt, the removal of the fabric revealed a set of dog tags, a bizarrely handsome chartreuse scar webbed over his left shoulder, and an ominous bruise over John's sternum. Blair sucked in a breath as the heart monitor placed over the doctor's arched torso bleeped out a clearly unhealthy rhythm.

At that moment, John stirred, bringing his right hand up to swipe at the oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. Edging closer, the three men caught a breathless report from him as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his chest.

He panted, "Cardiac tamponade...front...gate...part of it...caught me in the...chest. O neg, no history of CT...problems apart from asthma...fentanyl's...better for me than...morphine. Morphine...doesn't...touch it."

Nodding, the consultant bent over John as a slight nurse proffered a green surgical sheet. Blair watched, sick with worry, as John dragged his head up to look Sherlock in the eyes, then DI Lestrade. When the doctor's eyes locked on him, he got the message loud and clear.

_Don't blame yourself. I chose to keep treating people and you couldn't have stopped me if you tried. _

Nodding, Blair took one last look over his shoulder as they were ushered out into the family room. The consultant was gently sliding a frighteningly large needle into John's chest, filling a syringe with shockingly scarlet blood and siphoning it off into a drain attached to the side of the bed. As the doors swung closed, he saw John's fingers twitch just once, then still as the sedation overtook him.

Stepping lightly into the surgical theatres family room eight hours later, clutching another black coffee, two sugars, and an espresso, Blair was conscious that Sherlock was suspiciously quiet. He was folded into his chair, chin resting on his bony knees as he stared ahead, eyes brighter than normal. Regarding him with melancholy eyes, the young policeman was struck by the strength of the bond between the detective and the doctor. Sergeant Donovan had been wrong, then. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a sociopath, just a very smart man who had no patience for anything that didn't sate his great big brain or provide him with stimulation. John was his dynamo, and without his long-suffering flatmate, he just appeared to stop.

The cardiothoracic consultant chose that moment to poke his head 'round the door.

Holmes's head snapped up, all his attention focussed on the white-haired man in scrubs and an offensively bright yellow bandana.

"How is John? Will he be alright?"

Peering down his glasses at the suddenly animated man, the consultant was softly spoken, and had to strain to make himself heard as Sherlock demanded an answer again.

"Doctor Watson's condition is critical at the moment. He's strong and fit, but the nature of cardiac tamponade is idiosyncratic, and his previous injury has complicated the blood vessel structure on the left hand side somewhat. We're hoping to be able to give you good news at some point, but it's very much a waiting game, Mr Holmes. If he makes it through the next twelve hours, his chances of survival will improve with each six-hour window that passes."

"I know all that! What are his chances _now_?"

Looking over his specs apologetically, the doctor fixed them all with a solemn look.

"Less than forty percent, I'm afraid. If I were you, I would go and sit with him just in case. You may need to prepare yourselves. Mr Holmes, you have his power of attorney-may I have a word, please?"

As Sherlock swept from the room, Greg and Blair looked from each other to their shoes. A thick pall of silence covered them, sticking in their mouths like cotton wool and making the quiet of the family room seem oppressive. Sherlock loomed over them then, a positively murderous expression darkening his face as he glowered at the consultant's retreating back.

"John's living will states that if his condition becomes unrecoverable, he should be taken off life support. When the consultant indicated that might be a possibility, I told him exactly what John has already survived and invited him to say that again. We're being taken to see John now, anyway."

The three men trooped out to the waiting nurse. Blair noted that neither of the older ones had asked him what he was still doing here, following the others down the corridor into the Intensive Care Unit. Greg quickly looked away, Sherlock striding straight through the doors to John's bedside as the teenager gazed through the observation window. The doctor looked small and frail, covered in trailing wires and cloaked in gauze, with a rigid plastic tube leading from his mouth to the life support machines. John's blonde hair was rumpled, his expression almost unbearably peaceful.

Blair decided that this unnaturally relaxed, boyish figure was an ersatz John Watson, a pale imitation of the strong, authoritative man whose ability to stay calm under pressure had saved he didn't know how many lives including Cammy's, and his own.

The slur of John's mouth around the ventilator and the stillness of his lashes was a million, billion worlds away from that brilliant, amazing, _terrifying_ poker face.

* * *

A/N II: A cardiac tamponade is a bleed in the pericardium, the area the heart lives in. It's very serious, and sometimes results from blunt force trauma to the chest, like part of a wooden front gate whacking into your sternum at high velocity... Eventually, a person might well need open heart surgery to fix the cause of the bleeding, but I am not a medic so I have no idea how long it would take or what the survival rates are. The procedure that the A&E consultant performs is called a pericardiocentesis, and is the first stage of treatment.

John would have known what was happening and probably have felt absolutely awful, so for him to keep going would require a phenomenal poker face. I liked the idea of writing this from Blair's POV because it's not a great leap of logic for us to assume that other people will be impressed by the fact that John is so good at so many things.

PS: Bonus points if anyone can tell me where the black coffee, two sugars, and the yellow bandana come from. The bandana is from something that is definitely *not* Sherlock...


	13. Resilience III

A/N: This follows on from the last chapter 'Poker Face', and is the finale of this particular arc. There is a hint of sweet and caring Mystrade in this chapter, coming as it does from Mycroft's third person point of view. I've tried to capture the way he speaks, because I'm pretty certain he would actually think in those terms were he non-fictional. Thanks to **Confictura **for being incredibly quick with a review in which he or she poses an excellent question: How did Sherlock not know that John was in pain and critically injured?

My explanation is thus: a) Sherlock is in shock. b) Because he is in shock, and because John is the only one who can really impress on him the need to do certain things, Sherlock is focussing only on what John has told him to do: use his knowledge to help people and see if there is anything that needs doing. (This is also why we're treated to the spectacle of Sherlock helping Anderson _without insulting his IQ levels_. Wonders will never cease.) c) Sherlock and John were likely not together when it happened; Sherlock was probably talking to whomever was in charge of the case, and John was probably kicking about watching the SOCOs or Anderson, which is why he was close enough to be properly injured. d) Like many other writers, my headcanon states that one of the reasons why John's injury was so severe is because he likely kept on going despite the wound, because there were people that needed his help more than he needed his rest. He's a truly selfless person, so sacrificing his own comfort and safety comes as second nature to him.

Also: my Sherlock and John are just very, very good friends: no slash unless you wish to put those particular goggles on in the privacy of your own homes.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Mycroft Holmes worried about his brother. _Constantly_, in fact. Despite Gregory's solid presence at the hospital for much of the recent past, and the rising hopes of the doctors, Sherlock's visage had taken on a preternaturally greyish hue not unlike the sickly paleness of his flatmate. The bags under his eyes drew the grey from the irises and smeared it above his cheeks like ash, leaving them colourless and liquid. John's left hand was firmly clasped in both of Sherlock's, and his little brother was staring fixedly at the monitors on the other side of the bed.

Although Doctor Watson's prognosis had improved to the extent that it was only a matter of time until he woke up, Sherlock had not left his side except when carried, unconscious with exhaustion, back to Baker Street for a few hours' rest. Sherlock felt responsible for his best friend's grievous injury, having trusted him to take care of himself. Had he only enquired, had he only _thought_, damn it, perhaps John would have been helped sooner. Then he would not be lying in a hospital bed, the one place where John Watson should not be, comatose and clinging on by his fingernails.

Cocking his head, Mycroft placed the tip of his umbrella very lightly on the lino floor, pivoting to face Sherlock, who was sitting straight up in the uncomfortable plastic chair. When he opened his mouth, Mycroft could see that Greg had not been exaggerating when he had come home the night before, eyes shimmering with tears and stubble peppering his jawline.

"He's breaking up, My. He-he's in bits, My, Sherlock...he looks lost, it's like someone forgot to wind him up since John got hurt.", he had whispered into the crook of Mycroft's neck. The tears had come then, and Mycroft had held him close and carded his fingers through the silver hair tickling his cheek until the older man had fallen into a dreamless sleep. He resolved to go and see the two of them first thing in the morning (five a.m. for him).

"It's been three weeks, Mycroft, and they took him off the ventilator days ago! Why is he not awake? Is it his brain? His heart? Is living with me so unbearable that he would rather stay here, or waste away, or-does he hate me, or is it not of his doing, or can he just not hear me asking him to come back..." Sherlock was ranting now, in full Baskerville sensory overload and gripping handfuls of his curls. He looked quite demented, and Mycroft felt himself wince internally at how much he was reminded of a raven-headed five-year old cradled on Nanny's lap after a particularly cruel goodbye from his first best friend. Sherlock's worst fear was coming to pass-that John might not want him as his friend any more.

Sighing at the sad sight of a genius with all the emotional nous of said five year-old, Mycroft drew himself up to his full (considerable) height, deciding that it wouldn't do to let Sherlock continue down that particular, er, 'hiding to nothing'.

Speaking calmly, and with no small amount of his usual affected superciliousness, he addressed Sherlock as though talking to a particularly bribe-cognisant warlord. "Sherlock. It has been just over _two_ weeks, not three. As usual, your talent for hyperbole is exceptional. They took him off the ventilator a week ago, and they only removed the sedation _yesterday_. Just because he wants a rest from you, dear brother, why should that mean he wants a more _durable_ arrangement of that kind?"

Speaking more softly now as Sherlock's brow creased in worry, he decided to take the big-brotherly route. "Little brother. 'Lock, look at me. He's been under heavy sedation for days and is recovering from heart surgery. He was tired and adrenaline-boosted before treatment, so it stands to reason that he might stay under for a little while longer than we might expect. He will wake up, we just have to wait a little while."

Nodding dully, Sherlock resumed his earlier watch, peering avidly at the machines beside his friend to anticipate any change. Turning to leave, Mycroft smiled a little in wonderment. John Watson really was spectacularly resilient. A lesser man would not have lasted that first fraught night, connected to life by the most tenuous of strings. Fewer would have lasted the long slog of the next fortnight, and fewer still the gruelling regimen of physiotherapy and rehabilitation that they all knew John would follow to the letter, no matter how many pain barriers he was required to hurdle.

"John?," Sherlock whispered reverently.

Mycroft turned on the spot to see the doctor's eyelids flickering, his grip squeezing lightly on the violinist's digits as they curled around his own nimble surgeon's hands. John's dark blue eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the light as Mycroft gently reached forward and twisted the dimmer switch. A brief, dazed flicker of a smile in his direction in thanks, and John's emerging attention was focussed entirely on his little brother.

"Sh'lock? Y'okay? Dun' look well..."

Sherlock smiled the brightest smile that Mycroft had ever seen. "That's absurd, John. You've just woken up from a-" (at this point the baritone became a strangled bari-tenor) "-near death experience. You should be worrying about _you_, you idiot."

John smiled, knowing just how affectionate that little in-joke had become. Then his gaze became deadly serious. "'Heard you, last couple 'days. Never give up on you, no matter how many heads you put in' fridge, or how many times you have to replace m'jam 'cause you wanna see whether or not enough sugar negates the need for photosynth'sis in belladonna...waited for you for three years. Very resilient, y'know."

With that slurred reminder of just how much staying power was hidden away inside that steely, oft-underestimated man, Mycroft felt it best to leave. He stole a glance behind him as Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of a little sniffle, letting his guard down in front of John in a post-Reichenbach agreement. John's strong arm curled gently around his little brother's shaking shoulders as the younger man's long fingers tentatively stroked the soldier's hair from his forehead as the best friends succumbed to sleep. Slipping softly away, Mycroft pulled out his phone to call Greg, safe in the knowledge that he would soon hear and see him smile.

* * *

A/N: Clearly the Holmes brothers love each other deeply and are just a bit less lucky in the emotional quotient department than empathetic people like John, Greg and Molly. I like the idea that Reichenbach has softened them around the edges a wee bit, and love the idea that, in times of acute stress, they still have nicknames for each other.


	14. Dancing

A/N: Hello! Here's another chapter.

I can't help but imagine John with another type of grace quite different from the delicacy of his surgical career, so it would seem apt to see him shifting his attention from one precision activity to another! I am convinced that, even though theirs is only a brilliantly crafted 'bro'mance (*shudder*), John probably has an entire wing of the Mind Palace dedicated solely to him-what else would Sherlock think to do with all those layers and contradictions within the doctor-soldier-marksman-arbiter of humaneness except catalogue them?

Also, congratulations to **Guest** for answering the two brainteasers correctly: the 'black coffee, two sugars' reference is from ASiP, when poor Molly becomes the victim of Sherlock's total obliviousness _yet again_. The yellow bandana is indeed from Martin Freeman's stint as a teenaged gangsta rapper in Staines (that is, Ricky C in _Ali G Indahouse_, which I have only seen clips of and have no wish to see the rest of...it reminds me too much of what we all wore when we were that age). I couldn't resist, but must go and divest my brain of early Noughties culture now...

* * *

Rootling through John's box of photographs (hidden under the bed-_obvious!_) for the photo of the both of them at that infernal Christmas market that his flatmate had dragged him to in Prague, Sherlock stopped. His hands hovered, fingers poised in a grabbing motion, above the sturdy cream-coloured storage box as he spotted something _very_interesting. A Polaroid photograph, mid-nineties, judging by the streaky highlights worn by the girl in the picture and the Yamaha keyboard in the rehearsal space. She was dressed in a sea-green leotard, dance tights and pointe shoes, and in a perfect pas-de-bras position. And yet, it was not her who caught his attention, but her partner. His eyes widened in shock as he drank in the image of his friend before he'd met him. It was a rare gift indeed.

John was _suspended_ in the air, frozen in mid-leap. His lean form was stretched into an elegant curve, legs fanned out into a breathtaking _grand jeté _as his arms curved gracefully up and away over his shoulders, fingers extending up towards the spotlight that beheld him. The floppy haircut that brought his dark blonde hair to rest just over the tops of his ears, and the look of fierce concentration on John's face, brought into focus just how young John must have been; 18, 19 years old? The black t-shirt and dance tights set a contrast with his outstretched arms and bare feet, and Sherlock was fascinated as an unbidden image formed of John as an undergraduate, gliding effortlessly over the polished floor of the gallery in the east wing of his Mind Palace to Debussy's _Passepieds_.

Rummaging through the rest of the small stack of Polaroids, Sherlock came across another, just John this time, dressed in light grey vest top and slim jersey joggers with silver lustre over his temples and gelled hair, and an exquisitely feathered pair of silver wings curving down his back with another, smaller pair on his ankles. His lips and cheekbones were painted in the same way, and he was flung effortlessly into a perfect arc, hands dipping under his shoulders and parallel with his feet as his back formed a flawless inverted curve, like the peak of a sine wave or a parabola. His face was turned towards the camera, completely relaxed in the same manner as his hands. He looked blissfully free and happy, glorying in the music. Sherlock understood now why losing so much agility and mobility had left John so bereft. Those perpetually aching limbs weren't just a livelihood. They were a huge part of something that he had truly enjoyed and, judging by the writing on the back of the photograph, had an exceptional talent for. Turning it over once again, Sherlock smiled as he took in the words, carefully pencilled in John's neatest hand.

_Dancing Hermes in Shostakovich's Apollo; UCL-Royal Academy Joint Showcase, 13th June 1996._

Hearing John coming through the front door, along with the promising rustle of shopping bags, Sherlock hurriedly stowed the box exactly where he'd found it in order not to displace the surrounding dust pattern.

On the way out of John's room, he ran into a surprisingly solid shape on the landing. _Damn_. Evidently John had decided to hang his smart jacket up in his wardrobe in an effort not to crease it. Looking up at Sherlock, John's voice said 'I am a very nice man who is perfectly calm', but his eyes and bearing said '**Explain**'.

"Oh, hello. What were you doing in my room?", John enquired pleasantly.

"Looking for that photo of us in _Praha_. Mummy wants a copy." He cleared his throat evasively and made to step past John onto the stairs, but the captain simply stepped in front of him, folding his arms and indicating the top step with a single look. Knowing that he was really being ordered, not simply nagged, the taller man complied, with John standing above him. His gaze was unflinching; it was clear that John wanted answers. Now.

"That is the real reason, John."

"What else did you see?"

This was such a typically Sherlock question-blunt, to the point-that he was momentarily flummoxed by the mode of interrogation. There was faint amusement behind the demand, as well as a familiar sense of exasperation, and Sherlock felt compelled to answer truthfully. Recovering himself, he forced his voice to remain even rather than making obvious his admiration for his best friend.

"I found some old pictures of you at university. Polaroids. You danced."

It was a statement rather than a question, and John simply nodded, motioning for Sherlock to give him more data.

"You looked as though you were exhilarated by it when you were playing in Apollo. Your dancing looked so fluid, like it was no effort at all!" (The excitement was coming through in his voice now.)"Clearly you were very good at it."

John blushed very slightly, smiling and settling himself on the top stair beside his friend. Although Sherlock had never been one for giving compliments unless they were inadvertently backhanded, he could recognise admiration for a gift when he saw it. John being a stellar empathiser he had always been good at reading between the lines, and Sherlock could sense him doing it now.

"I was never graceful-I was always lanky and uncoordinated; I used to trip over myself before I stopped growing." "_I wish I could have moved like that_."

"My balance was atrocious." "_Clearly yours wasn't. You had so much poise."_

"I had no sense of rhythm, no talent for charming an audience and no ability to take physical cues from other people." "_But_ _you could move in tandem with others to create something immersive, intricate and beautiful for them to watch._"

"In short, I am an appalling dancer." "_But you are incredibly talented, and I wish I could have seen you dance old friend_."

"You should be very proud of being able enough to do that." "_I am._"

John grinned. "Nice try, Sherlock, but I doubt I'll be able to channel the dearly departed spirit of Nuryev or take on Carlos Acosta any time soon. There's too much work on for that. Besides, that phase of things is long gone; I stopped dancing in my third year because I couldn't put enough research into my degree work if I was rehearsing all the time. _Apollo_ was my last show, actually. Thanks for saying all that, though. Very good of you to give me so much data to work with."

With that, John stood up in one graceful, feline stretch, jumping down the last flight of stairs, kicking his heels up behind him and landing _en pointe_. Turning round as he stepped into the living room, he grinned impishly before rounding the corner, disappearing from view and leaving Sherlock dumbfounded in his wake.

* * *

A/N: The streaky highlights are a reference to Ginger Spice (Geri Halliwell, whom US readers might know from a certain Simon Cowell production whose name I dare not speak). For those of you not privy to this particular brand of manufactured pop, the Spice Girls were a mid-90s girl band made up of five different 'types' of girl (Sporty, Posh, Ginger, Scary and Baby). They majored on massive platform trainers, tight ponytails, puffa jackets, popper tracksuit bottoms, and lucrative pop songs.


	15. Brass, a 221B drabble

This one is a little different from the others, folks: it's a 221B drabble!

Many thanks for the continued feedback; someone made an excellent point in their review of 'Dancing'. John wouldn't have landed _en pointe_-I actually meant to have him land in perfect balance on his tiptoes, and am not in any way a dancer myself, so my research was a bit lacking. Sorry all!

There was also a really helpful review on the chapter in which John gets hurt. It does seem a bit strange that John, who would have known how serious a cardiac tamponade is, didn't inform Commander Nelson once he knew everyone else had been stabilised. My view, when writing it, was that he knew they would be taken to one of the other trauma centres. When the consultant on call indicates the triage bays, the intention was that John would let the others go, then hang back to have a word with him. Unfortunately, because I have a bit of a flair for the dramatic, he didn't quite get that far.

The background to this chapter (which will be expanded on in the coming ones) is that Anderson is being his usual snarky self, and goes too far with Sherlock. When John defends him, Anderson questions his credentials, and John's response is a bit of a head-turner...

* * *

It had begun as a nice, straightforward locked-room murder. It transpired that the victim had been suffocated with carbon monoxide-not strangled, as Anderson had predicted-and Sherlock was gloating.

"_Imbecile_-John took one look and gathered more data than you did in your two-hour _clown act_."

"Worried we'll discover your proficiency with poisons, Freak?"

"You might, if you don't learn to know when you're beaten." John interjected with a steely smile.

"Oh, what would you know? You're just his lapdog-loyal and snappy, but not much cop in the guard-dog department!" Sherlock hissed like a scalded cat, whirling around to glare back.

Holding up a hand for quiet, John turned on a sixpence to face the pathologist. Every eye in the room swivelled towards the unfolding argument: even Greg peered over interestedly. John spoke quietly and stood ramrod straight.

"I have three commendations for bravery, including two mentions in despatches. In ten years I got three medals for medical prowess under enemy fire, a Military Cross and a _George_ Cross. I reached the rank of Captain and I was on the promotion grid when I got shot."

With that, John left, nodded at Greg (grinning) and Sally (struck dumb), allowing himself a small smile as the officers looked respectfully away.

"For goodness' sake, it's not like it matters! They're just bits of brass..."

* * *

I will be honest. I don't know much about military matters, and I don't know what the criteria are for receiving medals; I know that there are levels, with the Military Cross being the third level, the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross being the second, and the George Cross being the first (on an equal footing with a Victoria Cross). The GC is awarded for actions of extreme bravery not directly in the face of the enemy (those awarded in Iraq and Afghanistan have generally involved IEDs/bomb disposal). The VC is awarded for action in the face of the enemy. I don't know how likely it is for an MO to get one of these, let alone all of them! The line about medals for medical prowess is pure fabrication, but I'm sure they must exist somewhere in the British Army.


	16. In Which John Watson Is Brave I

Another chapter: there will be one for each of John's medals, with the exception of his medical awards, for the simple reason that we've seen a lot of Dr John Watson lately. He might be back at some point, you never know...The parts in italics are John's memories of the incidents in his citations, as I thought it would read better if he wasn't actually saying it all out loud. John is a straight talker, so I hope his riposte to Greg doesn't seem out of character.

Disclaimer: I know nothing about military matters, so I don't know what rank John would be at this point. If anyone can give me any info, it would be much appreciated.

Disclaimer so I don't get sued: If I owned a show in which Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch acted, I would be keeping the plots all to myself, the better to keep the series going. The show belongs to the Beeb and Messrs Gatiss and Moffat.

* * *

"John, Sherlock. Glad you could come. Since that, er, confrontation with Anderson," (Greg was smiling; somehow Sherlock suspected they were not at NSY for a reprimand), "I've been doing a bit of research myself. I got in touch with an old mate of mine who's been training new police recruits in Kabul. He's an ex Red Cap, and he owed me a favour from way back. He took the liberty of emailing over the public bits of your service record."

At the mention of Kabul, John tensed beside him, ears pricking up. When Lestrade mentioned his service record, the doctor visibly paled. His voice was hard and flinty as he responded, with an admirable facade of politeness.

"What meant you needed to see my file? Am I a suspect for some sort of heinous crime involving illegal poker in a forward operating base?"

His smirk was obviously hiding anger at Greg's invasion of his privacy, and not a touch of panic: the tic in John's jaw told him so. The DI had obviously noticed, and held his hands palms-out in a surrender gesture.

"Look, John. You never said anything before, and I've noticed you're, er, experienced in military matters. You wouldn't have told me if I'd asked, because you don't think you deserve those accolades, and I couldn't stay away from it. I'm sorry, mate."

"First things first; no, I wouldn't have told you if you'd asked me _then_. It's different when we're talking as mates, rather than you _interrogating _me. Secondly, I was quite happy to accept the Nightingale Medals. I told Sherlock on our first case that I was very good at what I do. I trained hard, and no matter what this lump says I'm not exactly stupid. Lastly, I'm very angry that you did that, because you had no right to snoop in my personal history without asking me first, but you're my mate, and you've always been a nosy bugger, so I forgive you."

Lestrade visibly relaxed, until John stood up, drawing himself up to his full height with his head held high. Extending a hand, he raised his eyebrows by a fraction.

"Show me what he sent you."

Even Sherlock shivered. John had slipped intuitively back into his leadership role, issuing an order to a man a decade his senior without batting an eyelid. Greg complied instantly, handing the file over with downcast eyes.

Leafing though the file, John stopped at the last page and chuckled. "Ah, I remember Macky Page. He was a poker demon back in the day-he was the only one who could ever beat me. Bastard's still got my watch, actually. You notice anything missing from this?"

"Funny you should say that. The last bit stops halfway through..."

John's mouth twisted into a grim smile. "He's left out the last page of my George Cross citation-the bit where I got shot. Good, that."

Sherlock smirked, though his brow creased at the shadow crossing John's features. Barely a second later, his face was back in its usual affable expression.

"So, come on then. You're dying to ask me about these citations, aren't you? The papers he's sent you only have the official version."

Greg sighed, defeated. "Start with the commendations?"

John's face softened in reminiscence, though his eyes bored into the wall behind the inspector's head as he glazed over and he began to speak in a faraway voice.

_The heat of the place was still overwhelming, and the stench of cow dung was enough to make his eyes water as he rounded the corner into the market. Macaulay had motioned for him to follow as B-unit went out on patrol , knowing that John hadn't yet gone outside the Green Zone as part of a recce team. He'd only landed in Afghanistan three months before, a green young officer cadet of twenty-seven fresh from the cold and stately marble of Sandhurst. A trickle of sweat ran down his back, prickly and insidious, as he gazed wide-eyed at the chaotic sprawl of central Kandahar. Suddenly a shout rent the air. _

"_**Man be doktor niaz daram!**__"-"I need a doctor!"_

_Turning to face the veiled woman in the traditional blue burqa, Cal started at the sight of the baby bundled in the woman's shaking arms. _

"_**Medic! Cadet, come and help her!**__"_

_Ignoring the cold feeling of dread that had started at his toes and crept upwards, John jogged over, proffering his medical bag for Cal to hold. He'd very quickly become one of the battalion's go-to medics, known for his quick thinking, skill, and impeccable intuition. Just as Cal turned to take the baby from the mum, John noticed the single wire, tracing down underneath the burqa. _

"_**Sir, it's a bomb. It's not a baby, it's fucking plastic explosive! GET DOWN. EVERYBODY, GET DOWN!**__", he roared, just as the woman pressed down on something hidden in her palm. They had managed to run about five metres (and he was pleased to see that everyone around them had found shelter), when the bright heat of flame seared its way across the square. _

_Throwing himself across the Captain and deflecting the worst of the debris with the Kevlar on his back, John crashed to the ground, getting a mouthful of desert for his trouble. With one deft movement, Cal rolled out from underneath him. John sprawled heavily onto his back, before pitching over on to all fours to try and retrieve his kit to treat the wounded. Blinking up confused at the blackened sky, he tried to work out how he'd ended up back on the floor. Cal's face appeared above his own, and by the contorted expression on it he was yelling. He began to shake John's shoulders, and John could just make out that he was being told, "__**Stay awake, Cadet! S...with me!**__" He heard a faint cry of "__**MEDIC!**__", then closed his eyes. Just for...a second..._

_He was in the back of a Warrior, that much he could tell. He was on a stretcher with his fellow medics all around him, each pothole juddering his aching bones. Bill Murray, a couple of years his senior and already a Lieutenant, was bending over him, gently wiping something from his face. His eyes flickered open, and he was briefly concerned by the muffled quality of the sound around him before sleep took him in again. _

_Later the same day, John's eyes flickered again as he stirred, letting out a small and economical groan of pain. "__**Back with us then, Officer Cadet Watson? Ye had me worried fer a bit there. Can you hear me, John? Do you understand? Nod if you understand.**__"_

_John nodded at Bill, relieved to find that everything was a damn sight less quiet than it had been during the transport. "__**So come on then, doctor. Will I live to fight another day?**__" He put on his best puppy-dog eyes, dramatically sighing and raising the back of his hand to his brow. Bill chuckled. "__**I should say so, mate. Nasty concussion, a burst eardrum, minor burns and a nice wee shrapnel wound to the right hand side of your back.**__"_

_His expression turned deadly serious as he perched beside his colleague on the bed. "__**You were really lucky, John. A metre further back and you'd have lost a leg, or your hearing. You were out for the best part of six hours. You've only been here what, three months?**__" John nodded, not quite sure where this was going. _

"_**That's an uncommon reaction for a newbie. Wouldna be surprised if there's a commendation in it for ye.**__"_

"_**A commendation? For what? Noticing a suicide bomber when it's part of officer training ABCs?**__"_

_Bill sighed._

"_**Bravery, John. Actions above and beyond the call of duty.**__"_

_John snorted. "__**Any one of us would have done it. I'm nothing special. Never have been, never will be.**__"_

_Murray's face hardened as John yawned, seemingly oblivious to the drop in temperature in the Majors bay. _

"_**Get some rest, eh? You'll need to be up bright and early for the Brigadier's ward rounds...**__"_

_Smiling as John snuggled down under the blanket looking impossibly young, Bill detected movement at the double doors out of the corner of his eye. Standing up and brushing off his trouser legs, he crossed the bay and smoothly pushed them open. Captain Macaulay stood, legs akimbo, watching intently as Watson settled down to sleep. Each saluted, and they turned to one another. _

"_**Did you tell him**__?__**"**_

_Bill nodded a yes. _

"_**And what was his reaction to the possibility of a commendation?**__"_

"_**Doesn't think he deserves it, sir.**__"_

"_**Ah, well then. We'll have to make sure he gets one. Humility is wasted on cadets. We'll have him leading soon, if we play our cards right."**_

_John, of course, heard none of this. He was far gone, under the dual aegis of exhaustion and analgesics. When he woke up the next morning, a slip of paper was beside his bed 'requesting' his presence in front of the battalion commander in the next few days. _

"So lemme get this straight. This 'act of bravery beyond the call of duty', which 'in so doing, saved the lives of his CO and thirteen Afghani civilians' was the first time you'd been out on patrol? Bloody Hell. There's observant and there's observant!"

Lestrade whistled through his teeth as Sherlock turned to John, one corner of his mouth lifting up in the smirk that said 'Excellent: more data!'. John merely rolled his eyes. Indicating the inky sky outside the office, he opined, "Well, it's late. We'd best be going, eh Sherlock?"

Nodding, Sherlock stood as Captain Watson swept out, leaving Greg and the detective discomfited in his wake.

* * *

A/N II: John's temporary hearing loss is understandable given his proximity to the bomb; I can still remember a BBC correspondent called John Simpson, being recorded in the middle of a friendly fire incident in Iraq and saying that his hearing had gone, so I've based the resulting awfulness on that. The 'humility is wasted on cadets' line is a take-off of the old saying that 'wisdom is wasted on the young'. I put Bill in because I enjoyed writing him, and I think he'll become very important to John over his service. I've put him in Afghanistan because Iraq wouldn't have started as a conflict until 2003, when John would have been in the army for the best part of three years.


	17. In Which John Watson Is Brave Again (II)

A/N Hello! New chapter, hurrah! I might not be posting as regularly as I did, given that I'm now getting firmly stuck into a postgraduate course. Sorry everyone!

This is the second of the 'medal' chapters, and it's quite long...

There's a nice wee bit of Greg-Sherlock-John banter at the beginning, plus a whacking great piece of battlefield writing. Thanks must go to **hjohn302, TYRider, Rachaell D, johnsarmylady and ArtyDiane** for their reviews of the last chapter. It's always so lovely to hear what people think and know that someone took a wee bit out of their day to read something by little old me.

**Trigger warning: Minor OC death, not graphic. Battlefield scene, injury, a little bit of blood. Erm, also swearing. (Sorry, Mum.)**

* * *

Sitting in the hotel bar, Sherlock wrinkled his nose as John turned from the bar, balancing a pint of bitter (Lestrade's, obviously), a Martini (his) and a cider (John's own selection). They had only been in Manchester for two days, and already the case had turned from a labyrinthine mess into a straightforward parricide. _Barely even a three..._

John had been _dull_ and gone back to the hotel to catch up on sleep, having come home from a thirteen-hour A&E backshift only to have a train ticket and a holdall shoved into his hands. (They had to _hurry_ before Forensics got their grubby little fingers into the evidence-couldn't he _see?_) He had been pleasantly surprised to be woken up by Greg (with whom he was sharing a suite), bearing the news that the case was over and he'd managed to corral Sherlock into something as pedestrian as going for a drink.

"Ugh, this is impossibly-"

"_Don't_ say it. Nope, just don't."

John spoke with military coolness, knowing that it was practically the only thing that would make him shut up. Sherlock let his mouth close with a snap, scowling as Greg's eyes twinkled with amusement.

The DI broke the silence by holding up his pint for John to clink his glass against. "Well, here's to another case solved in record time, and a bit of time to relax."

"Hear bloody hear!"

Suddenly there was a commotion behind them at the bar. The blonde girl behind it (missing someone, toys with hair when nervous, college student, working to pay fees, mother to a toddler: boring) let out a muffled shriek and clapped her hand over her mouth. Rushing round the bar, she pelted down the ramp to the front door as a tall, dark-haired figure stepped through it. Lifting her into the air, the figure carried her up to the bar where her boss was waiting, as the simpering 'awwws' and cooing started. What finally got his attention wasn't the sentiment.

It was the uniform.

_Standard desert combat dress, just returned, sand under the epaulettes, insignia of a Lance Corporal. Navy beret, so not in a regiment with colours-belt. Look at the belt. Familiar, but where from?_

Just as he was about to go into his mind palace, John (who somehow knew what he was thinking) interrupted his train of thought in a dreamy, faraway voice.

"Crimson Red, Sable Blue and Old Gold. He's in the RAMC."

Although he'd spoken quietly in order not to ruin the moment, the medic's head swivelled in their direction. Looking sheepish and shrinking into his collar, John murmured, "Sorry," before turning back to their table and sipping at his drink.

Sherlock smirked. He wasn't going to get off that lightly.

"Lance Corporal James Lyons. You are?"

Sighing, John stood, turning to face the younger man. "Captain John Watson, retired. Served until 2010."

The other soldier's eyes widened. He shifted to attention in seconds, snapping out a salute. John responded in kind, drawing admiring glances from around the room.

A voice boomed out from behind the bar-the owner.

"Alright, ladies and gents, nothing to see there. Just two gentlemen talking."

Embarrassed, the other patrons turned away, murmuring into their drinks.

"Captain Watson, sir? Major Murray's told me a lot about you, sir. Said you were the best surgeon he'd ever seen, top of your class and everything!"

John ducked his head, blushing a deep crimson as Greg's eyes turned the softer brown of pride and Sherlock's narrowed.

Speaking more quietly, almost reverently, the young man spoke again. "He said you'd saved him, back in Chaghcharan. And that you'd gone into the suck in Herat, and in Kabul and Kandahar."

John nodded, tightly, slowly.

"So it's all true, then? You were really that brave?"

Looking distinctly uncomfortable by this point, John smiled painfully.

"Major Murray likes to tell stories. He always was one to exaggerate other people's courage. He was pretty bloody good himself, all told. Anyway, shouldn't you be getting back to your leave?"

He nodded over his shoulder, where Lyons' girlfriend (_definitely girlfriend, not wife, and still faithful after all this time_) was waiting, being shooed away from the bar by her boss.

Turning back to Greg and Sherlock, the young man leaned in conspiratorially. "If you get the chance, ask him how he got the nickname Three Continents."

Noticing that John was looking at him evenly, head high, Lyons took his leave.

"Oh, Lance Corporal? Next time you see Major Murray, ask him to tell you about 'that time in Chaghcharan with the goat'. And ask him to write to me and tell me how the Hell he got that rank..."

Grinning (slightly evilly, Sherlock thought), John shook his head and slouched into his seat. An unsolicited refill appeared at his left elbow.

"I hope he does ask. He'll get beasted for it."

Sherlock willed John to realise that Greg was looking at him expectantly. Thankfully, although John could not observe he was still a consummate empathiser. Sighing, he nodded and raised his eyes to the heavens.

"Alright, I'll tell you about bloody _fucking_ Chaghcharan. But not here, and only once I've finished my drink."

Half an hour later they sat in the fading light, looking out on the lights of the city in the hotel's rooftop garden. Greg and John were bundled up against the cold as the wind whipped through their hair. John opened his mouth, rolling his eyes as the others leaned forward to catch his words.

_Slamming the doors on the truck shut and hauling himself into the back, John stretched out his taut shoulders and neck. The mother and baby clinic had been long and emotionally draining, as had the queue for food supplements when they'd handed the building over to the Red Crescent. The clinic had been the first in the area for a while thanks to increasing Taliban attacks; even now, Pete Carling (one of their best shooters) had gone ahead with Bill to scout out the road ahead._

_Bentley and Butler, two privates from the Fifth Northumberlands, were driving. John leaned against the hot metal of the truck bed, mentally totting up their remaining supplies to combat his boredom. Suddenly, a screech of brakes and squeal of tires made him sit bolt upright as the truck lurched to a stop. The air had turned electric, and his first thought was: _**ambush**.

_Bentley tossed him a sidearm and he cautiously made his way around the side of the truck, arriving at the front end just in time to hear Butler curse fluently. _

"_No ambush, sir. False alarm. But Lieutenant Murray's in trouble."_

_John's eyes followed the trail of the young man's finger as it swept from the road in front of them, the trip wire glinting dangerously in the relentless sunshine. The Jeep had careered off the road..._

_Straight into a minefield. Fucking hell._

"_Bentley, radio for backup and an ordinance disposal team. Butler, keep watch."_

_The two men complied instantly; Butler drew his weapon and took up a defensive position at one end of their vehicle while Bentley posted himself at the other. He shot a curious glance at John, who was peering intently out into the mined stretch of sand, obviously thinking. He couldn't yell out in case it drew the insurgents to their position...radio instead, then._

"_Beta Mike Seven, this is Juliet Whisky. What's the situation, over?"_

"_I'm fine, but Carling's concussed and confused. I'm trying not to let him out of the car, he'll wander off."_

"_Received, on way."_

_John took a hard look at the field. If he could skirt round the edges, where the tussocks of grass and windblown bushes lay, he'd be much less likely to come across anything nasty. Laying mines was bloody difficult in sand, but to lay them amongst vegetation was nigh on impossible. The Taliban often used older VS-50 mines; on their own, they were nasty enough, but with the ammo Pete carried on his belt...he didn't want to think about the consequences. He had to get them out of there._

"_You can't go out there, sir. You'll get blown up, and then where would we be?" _

_John knew they had been incredibly lucky not to hit any explosives on the way over the ridge, but that the slightest shift in pressure could cause an almighty bang. Just then, the passenger side creaked open and Carling stumbled out. Ignoring protocol, he bellowed._

"_CARLING! CARLING, GET BACK IN THE CAR. GET BACK IN THE FUCKING JEEP!"_

_It was too late. Pete stumbled, there was a click-_

_-and flames licked at the surrounding sand. _

"_Pete! Pete! Ah, naw, man! For God's sake!"_

_Belatedly, he remembered that Butler had shared digs with Carling. He turned to meet the young man's eyes, but he was grimly focused on the road behind them. His only concession to emotion was the shake in his shoulders and a slight bowing of his head. Bentley looked faintly green, but radioed in the casualty calmly anyway._

_The only comfort was the absence of screams. As the smoke cleared, John spotted Carling with a shrapnel wound to his head and the peculiar limpness that spoke of death. At least it had been painless._

_A groan to the right startled him into action. He'd almost forgotten Bill was there, and would have been thrown by the blast. _

_As if knowing what he was thinking, Bentley looked at him incredulously. _

"_You can't be serious, sir? We've already lost Pete, we can't lose the only medic who's not stuck."_

"_Bentley, keep in radio contact. Butler, keep going."_

_As they chorused a "Yes, sir!", John moved forward, hunkering down into a near-crouch next to the thorn bushes at the perimeter._

_Coming to the vehicle from the front rather than the sides, John saw his friend slumped in the driver's seat. Running, fleet-footed, up to the door, John scrambled in, shaking Bill's shoulders roughly and shouting for him to wake up. He was rewarded with a grimace. Bill was sleepy but conscious, blood trickling down his face from a jagged gash at the top of his scalp. John listed the injuries for the handover in his mind: concussion, laceration to the scalp approximately two inches in length, query burst eardrum, query abdo bleed, lower left quadrant (he couldn't be sure if the absence of guarding behaviour was a result of confusion or a good sign). GCS approx 13. Stable, responsive to pain and voice but unable to follow commands._

_Satisfied that moving him wouldn't do more harm than good, John hefted Bill up, hands under his arms, and hauled him back through the driver's side. Dragging him back the way he'd come, John staggered under Murray's weight. He winced as the thorn bushes scraped across his back, but pressed on._

_Suddenly, he was hit by a rush of sound, the muted tunnel vision receding as he turned his head towards the road. A chopper had landed for a medivac, and three of their colleagues from the nearby field hospital leaned out over the bank to help him hoist Bill up onto the stretcher. The clamour receded slightly, and John allowed the babble of voices to wash over him as he sank onto his haunches next to the truck. Another medic came to crouch beside him._

"_Second Lieutenant? John?"_

_A woman about his age was peering intently at him. He turned his head, slightly confused as to why she was checking on him instead of looking at the two privates for shock. He vaguely recognised her from his work in Kandahar, as an Intensive Care registrar. She'd obviously been on all-duty call when the info had come in. _

"_Morstan, right?" _

_She smiled, cheeks dimpling as she pushed her strawberry blonde fringe out of her face. "Yep. Medical Officer technically attached to the Welsh Guards, but based at Bastion. You've got a good memory, that was nine months ago."_

"_I don't need checking, I'm fine. Butler and Bentley'll need a good look over for shock, though."_

_She sounded half-amused, half-exasperated as she shot back, "And I suppose for you lot a severe bleed isn't cause enough to see a doctor?"_

_He looked down to where she was pointing. __**Oh.**_

_Not only was his back covered in stinging welts from the thorns, but there was also a deep gash on the side of his right leg. He could feel the sticky scarlet pooling under his foot, and wrinkled his nose in disgust._

"_It's a fair cop. When I'm in the suck I just...get on with it, y'know. No time for checking yourself when you've got bigger things to worry about."_

_She nodded in understanding. One of the advance snipers sent out with the ordinance team, a Lieutenant Moran, put a beefy arm around his waist and hoisted him into a standing position, depositing him in the back of the Warrior for the trip back to Bastion. John shivered as his eyes met the gunman's; they were cold and beetle-black, and Moran smiled grimly as he slammed the door._

_A few hours later, dressed in clean uniform and in possession of the neatest row of stitches he'd seen since neuro rotation at Barts, John limped into Bill's room. His superior was sitting up in bed, idly flicking through the BMJ and sipping at an icy glass of water. He looked up as John eased 'round the door._

"_Glad you could join me. Bentley's already been in and told me what happened. It's a bloody shame about Pete." He sighed, settling back on his pillows as John pulled up a chair. John blushed crimson as he fixed him with his 'I am your superior and you'd better listen to me' stare. _

"_Bill, I-"_

"_I know what you're going to say, so you can haud yer wheesht, Second Lieutenant. You saved my life back there; you put yourself in the middle of a bloody mine field, after seeing a comrade die, and brought me back out. I'll not forget that any time soon. Now go on, get, or you'll miss dinner."_

_Nodding silently, John left without another word, following his nose to the mess hall._

_Later that night, on his way out to the chopper back to Chaghcharan, John was stopped in his tracks by a flustered Corporal. _

"_Sorry, sir, Corporal Feely, sir. Captain Macaulay and Major Jenkins need to see you, sir."_

_Turning to follow the antsy young man at a fast clip, John paused outside the door as he was introduced._

"_Enter."_

_He marched in, coming to a standstill directly in front of the desk and standing sharply to attention._

"_At ease, Watson. I'm sure you've heard rumblings about this afternoon's events around camp?"_

"_Can't say I've listened, sir."_

_Macaulay's eyes crinkled up at the corners in amusement, as Major Jenkins let out a booming laugh._

"_You did tell me he was spirited! Now, about your actions today: that was the stupidest," John swallowed, "most reckless," (he gulped), "bravest piece of comradeship I've seen in a long while."_

_John's face, which had been set, broke into an expression of mild surprise. _

_Macaulay actually __**smiled**_**.**

"_Mentioned in dispatches. Well done."_

_He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks again._

"_Er, thank you sirs."_

"_Dismissed."_

_John turned on his heel, marching smartly out of the door and walking straight out to the helipad. It was only when he was curled up in bed, looking at Murray's darkened tent, that he let himself relax and sleep. _

* * *

__A/N II: To recap: John has been promoted by a rank. Eighteen months or so have passed between his first commendation and this one.

We've met Mary Morstan and Lieutenant Moran (I refuse to give him a rank higher than John's)-thoughts, ladies and gents?

Just to be clear: **greedy reader** mentioned that the George Cross is a civilian medal; it is, but it's also awarded to combat troops for extreme courage not directly in the face of the enemy (bomb disposals and that sort of thing). The VC is only given to people who have done these things in direct contact with the enemy (that is, face to face). I did check, honest!

Lastly, for those of you not from my dear wee homeland, 'haud yer wheesht' is a Scots phrase that means 'be quiet'. If you _are_ from Scotland, review! Come for a wee blether!


	18. Remembrance

A/N: In films, you get reaction shots. This is the coda for the last chapter.

Apologies for sporadic updating: blame postgrad.

NB: For the purposes of this chapter, Greg is a few years older than the excellent Rupert Graves (52 instead of late forties).

This is written in the third person; hopefully, the next one will be in Greg's point of view.

A/N II: The Warrenpoint Ambush is real; it was an ambush and double bombing by the Provisional IRA on 27 August 1979. Eighteen soldiers were kill and another six injured. I'm writing this on Remembrance Sunday so, despite the fact I don't really go in for all the pomp and circumstance usually associated with military events, I thought that telling their story (even if I am being terrible and using it for a fiction piece) was an appropriate way to remember them and all the other man and women who've given their lives for other people. I might not agree with war, and especially not the recent ones, but I can't disagree with Armistice Day.

* * *

As John finished his story, Sherlock took a passing glance at Greg. The DI was rapt, sitting perfectly still with his head and body-his full attention-turned towards John, despite the cold wind that cut through his summer jacket. John, as usual, ducked his head sheepishly, shooting an embarrassed glance at him and standing in one smooth manoeuvre as Sherlock followed, turning to stride away.

"So essentially you put your own life at risk to save your friend?"

"That's what I keep telling you , Sherlock. This is why I get annoyed when you rush off without telling me where you're going, because it means more likelihood of me having to do that and save your sorry arse." John spoke with exasperation tinged with fondness, and Sherlock smirked at the shake of the head that followed as he headed into his room. Turning to cross the hall to his own, John caught a glimpse of Greg's shadowed face in the half-light.

"You okay?"

"Fine, yep. Just need some sleep. Those bloody interviews wore me out."

Forehead crinkling in concern, John decided to choose his battles and headed in to bed.

He was awoken by a rap at the door-one of the nice things about staying in a hotel was that you could lock your room against unwanted flatmate invasions Padding, bleary-eyed, over to the doorway, John hauled it open to find said perfectly groomed irritant looming above him.

"What is it, Sherlock? It's three in the bloody morning."

"I got up and went for a walk-bored-and when I was walking past Lestrade's room I heard something."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, he probably talks in his sleep!"

"He wasn't _talking_. It sounded like he was in pain. He wasn't hurt when they arrested the son, was he?"

"Don't think so. What do you propose we do?"

Smiling, Sherlock produced a card from his pocket.

"You-you nicked his room key?!" John's growl of anger was nonverbal and his face thunderous, even as he reached for his dressing gown. They made their way over to the door, John listening carefully. Suddenly, a quiet, but gut-wrenching cry filled the air.

"Greg? Greg! If you can, come to the door. If not, I'm going to give you thirty seconds and then come in."

Thirty seconds passed. Sherlock was deathly still, a warning sign in itself. When they slid the door open, the tableau in front of them set the alarm bells ringing; they looked at each other and each began to make their way round either side of the bed. A voice rang out across the room as Greg barked,

"STAY BACK!"

Sherlock hung back as John knelt down at the right hand side of the bed, nearest the window. Leaning round, even he could see that something was seriously wrong with Greg. He was curled up beside the bedside table, grey pyjama top soaked with cold sweat. His hair was plastered to his forehead, arms around his knees. Both hands were curled as though gripping something; Sherlock was at a loss, but John could see in his mind's eye the outline of an AK-47. Greg sat, motionless but for the nervous twitching in his fingers. His eyes stared straight out into the grey light of dawn, wide and unblinking, as John crouched in front of him. He knew PTSD when he saw it. Speaking softly, he leaned towards the silver-haired man.

"Greg? Wherever you are, it doesn't matter. You're safe; Sherlock and I won't let anything happen to you. It's okay now." Seeing Greg beginning to awaken, John placed a gentle hand on his left shoulder.

"Do you want to sit back on the bed?"

A minute shake of the head.

"Okay. You're shivering like mad. Sherlock, get his comforter and put it 'round his shoulders, would you?"

As Sherlock silently complied, Greg seemed to come back to them, blushing furiously as John's carefully schooled face swam into view.

"Where were you, Greg?", John asked softly.

"Warrenpoint."

Sherlock began visibly scrolling through his memory banks like microfiche, eyes widening as he got to the record. John's eyes flicked over his shoulder, lips pursing as he took in Sherlock's shock.

"What happened at Warrenpoint, Greg?"

"**I joined up when I was seventeen. I left school at the end of Year Ten; wanted to join a band, but my old man wasn't having it. He said I could get a steady job at Ford like everybody else, or I could leave the house. His roof, his rules, you know? So I said, bollocks to this, and ran off and joined the Army. I tried out for loads of things, but they saw I was good at combat and strategy, so they assigned me to 2-Para. Ended up in Northern Island, about a week after my eighteenth birthday. '79 was my second tour. I was nineteen. We were on patrol, because it was just after one of the Mountbattens had been killed; we were at Narrow Point, it's a castle, in County Down. As we came over the bridge, a bomb went off, razed the truck behind us..."**

At this, Greg stopped and shuddered. John's face had turned to stone, eyes swimming with guilt at dredging up the memory.

"**There were...there were body parts, all over the road, in the fucking **_**trees**_**. I saw one of my mates face down in the grass at the side of the road. I turned 'im over and dragged him to hard cover. I was so focused on getting him out of there that I didn't look at him until I lay him down. His legs...oh, Christ, his legs were gone, John! Nothing there, and he was screaming at me, and I was holding him, and he said 'Mum', and I looked down and he'd died."**

The words had come out as a kind of strangled rush, tumbling over one another in their haste to leave the tortured throat. Greg had doubled over by this point, John supporting him with his arms around Greg's middle as his face crumpled.

"I don't know why it had to come up today! I haven't thought about it in years...I just lock it away, y'know?"

"There doesn't have to be a reason for it, Greg. Sometimes it just _is_."

Noticing that Sherlock was hanging back, shuffling his feet, John half-turned to him.

"John...what do I do?"

"What do you usually do when I have a nightmare?", John prompted gently.

Face clearing, Sherlock bounded along the corridor to his own room after noticing that only the flavoured teas were left in Greg's, and came back with a cup of sweet tea. The corner of Greg's mouth quirked up in thanks as he cradled it in his hands, John smiling at Sherlock as he hung back, miraculously, to give Greg some space. John stepped back, letting Lestrade get himself comfortable on the bed; both men waited until he had fallen asleep, his breathing regular and his face peaceful, before taking their own positions in the room.

When Greg woke up six hours later, he found John fast asleep on the couch and Sherlock sitting guard in the armchair at the door.

* * *

A/N III: We've seen that Greg can be surprised and unsettled by the military side of John's character; my rationale for it is that he wasn't in the army anywhere near as long as John, and therefore isn't as used to the scary stuff (though how much anyone gets used to that is a moot point). I also think of him as having grown up in a strict but loving home, whereas I always think of John as having a hard time as a kid; I reckon that little John would have to be a very tough cookie indeed. Ugh, just thinking that makes me sad...As usual, reviews are always welcome.


	19. The Military Cross

Sherlock Dari drabble Ch 17: Military Cross

A/N: This is not based on anything that's already happened, merely what I've seen and heard about the conflict in Afghanistan.

In Chapter 17 we learn that John has been involved in acts of bravery in Kandahar, Kabul, Chaghcharan and Herat. He has three commendations for bravery aside from his medals, but it's the informal one that I won't be writing about, and it's the one that's supposed to have taken place in Herat. We've seen the first incident in Kandahar and Bill's rescue in Chaghcharan: this is set just outside Kabul.

The REMEs are the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineering Corps; the Cherry Berries are the Parachute Regiment; the Scablifters are the RAMC; and the Sheep Shaggers are the Black Watch (the long-running joke being that the only thing to do in Aberdeenshire, the regiment's home turf, is to do unmentionable things to the local wildlife).

**Trigger warning: non-explicit battlefield violence, minor OC death.**

* * *

John was basking in the sun on the roof when he heard it. Sherlock, who had all but barricaded himself in the flat when he saw the UV index for the day, was huffing, muttering under his breath about pompous fools and calling Mycroft, of all people. A curly head appeared next to him through the hatch as John took a long pull from a cold beer.

"What's got you so riled you're thinking of calling brother dearest?"

Looking nonplussed that John had heard him, Sherlock gathered his thoughts and thrust a letter in a thick ivory envelope under his nose. John flicked his sunglasses up on top of his head, peering at the offending package. He froze, recognising the RAMC crest. _Oh God, they'd better not be hauling me back. I've only just gotten settled again..._

Opening it gingerly, as if it might contain an unpleasant substance, John pulled open the letter, preparing to read it before noticing a dark shadow looming across it.

"_Sherlock_! I can't read with you peering over my shoulder like that! Sod off, you nosy bugger.", he said firmly.

Sherlock sat on the side of the hatch, long legs dangling down onto the ladder.

Once he'd finished reading it, he looked at his flatmate, fidgeting fit to burst.

"It's okay. They're not sending me back-"( Sherlock breathed an audible sigh of relief) "-but they want me to testify at an upcoming inquest for someone that died when we served together."

"Isn't it a bit, well, slow? You left in 2010, and it's 2011 now..."

"Some of these things take years to put together because there's so much evidence."

"John..."

"You want to know what happened, don't you Sherlock? You and your bloody insatiable curiosity!"

John sighed, a note of long-suffering resignation creeping into his voice.

"His name was Carl Everett, but everybody called him Beetle."

"_Everybody liked Beetle. You couldn't not love him; he had a wicked sense of humour, and he was really good at his job. He was the mechanic for our battalion; dealt with our jeeps, our Warriors, things like that."_

_They had been giving tetanus vaccinations at a school just outside Kabul, to girls and boys. As John, Macaulay, Aonghas Macalister (a Sheep Shagger on training as a field medic) and Carl Everett, a young Sapper seconded from the REMEs, made their way out to the Jeep, they noticed a flat tire on the driver's side. As Beetle jacked the car to change it, a crack of gunfire whistled over their heads, leaving them scrambling for cover. John looked to his left, seeing Brewer crouching and setting up radio contact with base, then looked to his right, finding Macaulay. Macalister was nowhere to be found. Poking his head up over the wrecked door of the Jeep in between bursts of gunfire, John spotted Aonghas, sprawled across the sand and bleeding freely from a wound to his abdomen as the children huddled in the far corner of the classroom, away from the Taliban ambush. _

_Looking once at the Captain to confirm, John fixed his sidearm and belly-crawled around the battered machine, rolling to the side as a bullet screeched dangerously close to his head. Whipping round to shoot at the insurgent taking potshots from the far corner of the building, John's aim was, as usual, bang on target. Yanking Macalister onto his back by the straps of his pack, John dragged him back behind their makeshift barricade, pressing down hard on the wound with both hands as his charge writhed underneath him. John was focused on Macalister's pallid face, packing the wound and administering morphine, when a hoarse yell from Macaulay made him turn._

_Carl was spread-eagled in the dust, eyes vacant. A single, neat bullet hole was visible in the slightly weaker banding of the helmet just above his neckline. Leaving his superior to keep pressure on the wound, and knowing that backup was coming, John took his rage and focused on the sniper on the roof of the school. Standing up and taking aim, he fired, quickly ducking as the man's friends began another volley of shots. He smiled grimly as he fell from the roof into the playground with a bitten-off scream. _Got the bastard._ The chug-chug-chug of an Apache and the dull whirr of Warrior tracks along the dirt track reached his ears, and he forced himself to focus on his patient as the Cherrie Berries began evacuating the school from the back and sending out waves of fire and RPGs. Somebody somewhere yelled "Grenade!", and John was dimly aware of throwing himself in the way to shield the young Scot from the oncoming blast before the world exploded into tiny shards. _

"I woke up at Bastion, just as they were hauling me off the Medivac. I got thrown against the side of the Jeep and ended up with three broken and two bruised ribs, a concussion and a ruptured kidney. They managed to put me back together again, and I spent a few weeks recuperating at the Queen Liz before I managed to convince them to redeploy me; Macaulay wasn't best chuffed. He yelled at me when I arrived, wondered if I'd learned anything since my cadetship...Made bloody sure I got a citation for it, which turned into a Military Cross." John chuckled at this, but his eyes were shining and sad. As he shivered in the cooling air, Sherlock draped the heavy wool blanket from the back of the sofa over his shoulders. His mind was assaulted by horrible images of John, tossed through the air and hurled against the unyielding metal like a matchstick in a hurricane. His skin crawled and a Something in the pit of his belly squirmed, and it was only assuaged by John's hand set squarely on his shoulder as he hauled himself up into a standing position.

"Let's go inside. It's bloody freezing up here now the sun's gone in."

"Crap telly and a Chinese?"

John looked up at his friend-and smiled.

* * *

A/N II: I had intended to write and post all the medal chapters in one go, but a) my muse for the army chapters has deserted me-this chapter being a concerted effort-and b) I think the last part (which will be two chapters, I think) will be more effective if it comes when you don't expect it...I am awful, I know.


	20. Mean Girls

Sherlock Dari drabble: Mean Girls chapter.

A/N: This one came to me in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. I hope it doesn't suffer from that. As always, the deductions are utter fabrication. Deductive reasoning is not reasoning, because it's not based on logical interrogation of the premises-it's just making conclusions from observation...and I'm not the most observant person ever. I can lose my keys when they're right beside me. John's super-rage is inspired by the wonderful description in **chappysmom**'s excellent Mistaken Identities; I love this lady's work, and she is very accomplished indeed!

This is one of the cases set between 'Dari' and 'Martial Arts I': yes, it's finally happened! It's the explanation for Regina George!

**Trigger warning: Mentions of domestic abuse, non-explicit discussion of child abuse, strong language.**

* * *

They had found the girl hunched up in the cupboard under the stairs.

The case had begun with a perfectly respectable woman, a teacher, bludgeoned to death in her own home then dumped on waste ground a mile away. Jane Sochanik's brutal murder had shocked the local community; she was kind, well-meaning, hard-working; a fixture at the Residents' Association and the church fete with a loving husband and a daughter near the top of her class. Speculation swirled and rumours whispered their way along the leafy street: it had been a burglary gone wrong, perpetrated by one of those feral children from the local estate; some degenerate had sneaked in and robbed her of her life and her husband and daughter of their future. Alex had come home to find a pool of blood in the Farrow & Ball kitchen with his beloved wife nowhere to be found. Distraught, he had called the police, terrified by the absence of Annabel as well as by the carnage in his well-appointed home.

Of course, Sherlock had no time for any of that. Thumbing through the stack of notes neatly pinned to the 'Paws for Thought' board above the dog basket, he found evidence of disagreements centred around the family's finances-specifically those of the wife. In the bathroom, the placement of the razors-pointed straight at the wife's Dr Haushuka face wash-spoke of deep resentments and a less-than-harmonious morning atmosphere whilst the placing of the daughter's toothbrush in the holder in front of her father's was a good indicator of the value placed on each relationship. The husband's wedding ring sealed the deal. It was dirty; frequently removed for reasons other than polishing. The flecks of blood John noticed under it whilst examining the man for shock didn't help matters, given that he hadn't been anywhere near the blood spatter in the kitchen according to his 999 call. As Donovan hauled him outside for processing, frantic attention turned to the whereabouts of the girl. According to the schedule pinned up in her tasteful pastel bedroom, she had been at hockey until half past five, stopping at home at six for dinner before a violin lesson at eight. The 999 call had been made at half past seven: plenty of time for her father to do many things, all of them criminal.

As the SOCOs made their way painstakingly through the house, John noticed that the door of the cupboard under the stairs was slightly ajar. As he made his way over, John could just see a wide set of deep green eyes peering through the slats of the door. As he neared it, they disappeared. He opened in to find her squashed in under the lower stairs and trembling with fright. She shrank back from his outstretched hands.

"It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. My name's John. I'm a doctor, I'm with the police. Are you hurt, Annabel-can I call you Annabel?"

She nodded, her lips forming a word. _Mum_.

"Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart? What you saw?"

"Dad came home early from the firm. He was really angry. Mum had been putting money away, trying to get a house up in Manchester near Gran. He called her a lying bitch, we were in the kitchen making cupcakes and he yelled at her. She told me to run, but I only got as far as here."

Greg watched silently, making notes as his mouth thinned into an angry line.

"He took my hockey stick out of my bag, the one under the table. I didn't see what he did after that. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears." She sniffed. "I was really scared!"

A single tear dripped from her cheek before she collected herself.

John visibly steeled himself for the next question.

"Had your dad ever hurt your mum before?"

She nodded. "He used to hit her; throw things at her. He called her useless, a liar, a...he used a bad word that I think means a...a prostitute?"

John nodded. "Did he...did he ever hurt _you_?"

Slowly, not looking at him, she nodded. "Only twice, last week and then last night. I tried to run away and he grabbed me by the wrist. That's why it's all purple. He was getting worse. I think mum wanted to leave."

Gently grasping her hand, turning it so the palm was pointing downwards, John's fingers lightly pressed on the swollen right wrist, and he murmured to her as she winced.

"It's definitely badly sprained, and there's a visible handprint in the bruising too."

His face when he looked up at Greg from his crouching position at the bottom step would have struck fear into the highest General or the lowest infantry cadet. Greg thought even Mycroft Holmes might have quailed a little under the icy gaze. John was incandescent with rage. Searing fury radiated from him, and the crowd of officers and scene examiners parted like the Red Sea as he strode out toward the squad car. Sally looked up, opening her mouth to protest and then shutting it with an audible pop as she saw the expression on the calm and mild-mannered doctor. Yanking up the slouching man into a standing position, she took a warning look at Lestrade, who was standing flush with John's right shoulder-his punching hand.

Taking in John's compact stature and poker-straight bearing whilst the doctor looked to Sally, Alex scowled. This little Hobbit of a man wasn't going to threaten him. He was 6'4, for God's sake! He sneered and prepared to win another pissing match.

Then John turned his gaze on him, and the bottom fell out of his world. His first thought was that he was probably going to die: the man in front of him was definitely capable of killing, that was certain. The second was that he had never been so terrified in all his life. God, he wished he'd never picked up that hockey stick...

Instead of eviscerating him where he stood, John stood in a deceptively relaxed 'at ease' position, legs slightly akimbo with his hands safely clasped behind his back. His voice was light, friendly even, but the assembled Yarders knew something Alex Sochanik didn't.

"Do you know what happens to child abusers in prison, Alex? Oh, you're a lawyer. Of course you do. I hope you enjoy being on the receiving end, because it will certainly expand your worldview. You physically abused a nine-year-old girl. You beat her loving mother to death in front of her and tore any thought of safety and security out from under her. You are not a man, because real men don't treat women like objects or slaves, or use violence to make themselves feel good. They treat others with respect and dignity because they know their worth, and they only ever use violence in self-defence or in defence of others. You are _vermin_. You are the lowest of the low. You are nothing. If you _ever_ come near that little girl again, I will _fucking_ end you. Is that clear?"

Despite the tears and snot currently making their way down his quivering face, Alex was still cocky enough to smirk down at John, who promptly took a step back, looking at him as if to say 'right, that's it'.

Everybody within a hundred metre radius jumped. John had done being a doctor, and tried being a Captain, used to giving orders calmly and rationally, even on a battlefield. Now he was a _commander_. Settling back on his heels, then rearing up into Alex's face, John opened his mouth...and _roared_.

"I WILL FUCKING END YOU, do you understand me? **DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!**"

Alex was bundled into the car by two slightly skittish constables as Sally looked down at the new puddle on the sunny street with disgust.

Three hours later, with a slightly shocky Annabel safely ensconced in a private bay in the nearest children's ward, John poked his head around the door. Her family liaison officer, a lovely young sergeant called Marie, smiled up at him from her seat next to the bed as Annabel looked up. Her face lit up as she recognised him.

"Doctor Watson! Marie said you might visit!"

"Your auntie's on her way down from Manchester just now, and she said you liked films, so I brought along a couple of DVD's that one of my friends says you might like. We've got...some popcorn? How did that get in here?", he teased. "Okay, there's Shrek, Madagascar, Up, Despicable Me, or Mean Girls."

"Mean Girls", she squealed. "I love Mean Girls, it's like my favourite film ever!"

Marie looked at him sympathetically. "You have no idea what you're letting yourself in for."

John made a funny face at Annabel as she settled back on her pillows, and settled in to watch. When the film finished, he stretched and stood up. Annabel peered up at him sleepily. "Why were you so angry at daddy? You don't even know me." Looking into her puzzled face, John sank back down into the plastic chair. Marie regarded him levelly over her cup of coffee as he cast his eyes around the room.

"I know what it's like to have a daddy that hurts you," he said simply.

"My dad liked a drink, and he was always a very angry, jealous person. He thought mum loved us more than she loved him, so he shouted at her, hit her, called her names...he didn't like who my sister went out with, so he started to do the same to her, to make her be more like he thought she should be. When she ran away, when she was 18, I was thirteen. My mum had died of cancer when I was twelve, so he had no-one else to take his anger out on. I ended up in hospital more than once, but I never told anybody anything. My biology teacher guessed, but I begged him not to say anything. I thought that if I could get good grades and be on the football and squash teams, maybe he'd start to like me. It didn't work. When I was 18, I moved in with my sister and her partner. He died when I was 20. I just don't like people who do that to anybody, never mind children. It's part of why I wanted to be a doctor."

Noting the studied absence of pity or sympathy on Marie's face, he gave Annabel a gentle hug, getting a proper squeeze around the middle in return. He'd never see her again, he knew, but he'd damn well see her father convicted in court.

* * *

A/N II: Poor wee John, and poor wee Annabel. Actually, poor Alex, too: I've seen a quitely raging Martin Freeman in a couple of interviews, and the way he says some very snarky things in that light and friendly tone is quite discomfiting, so imagine how shocking a livid Captain Watson is to behold!


	21. A Clarification

A/N: Mean Girls has now been edited to clairfy what I meant. 'Fraid I can't help you with any interviews where MF is in a proper rage!


	22. Musicianship

A/N: My first ever Kidlock chapter; my mum is an accomplished musician and went to music college herself. As a tribute to her musicianship, I wanted to capture the sense of belonging and satisfaction she got from her degree in a chapter of this story. We know that Sherlock is an excellent violinist (though I'm not sure he's at professional standard, as he is in many fics). I also really like the idea of John being really very good as a musician, but choosing to funnel all his efforts into sciences at school to focus on his ultimate goal of being a medic. However, the idea of Martin Freeman playing the clarinet is inexplicably hilarious to me: I think it has something to do with the self-deprecating, sarcastic raised eyebrow that would inevitably come along with it...Call me a fangirl and have done with it.

Here, they are fourteen and sixteen, and in the Royal College of Music's Saturday school. I'm quite sure it wouldn't have been around in the Nineties (gosh, I feel old), but what's a little chronological license between friends?

* * *

It was that rare thing: a quiet Saturday at 221B. Sherlock had gone to see his (surprisingly, beloved) mother while she visited London from Paris, taking his Stradivarius with him. "She does so love to hear him play; Mummy always said that Sherlock was the only violinist who could play 'Winter' without sounding like he was rushing to dinner. It was one of the first things he played solo with an orchestra." John had had a vague remembrance of hearing someone play it solo when he was a teenager, and wrinkled his nose in confusion, but shook it off and decided that it didn't really matter anyway. If he wanted to hear Sherlock play it, he could ask.

John had taken the opportunity to sit and read, catching up on a few back-issues of the BMJ and replying to an email Mike had sent from Hong Kong, where he was presenting at a conference on medical ethics. He'd dozed off on the sofa, waking up a couple of hours later to find that it was 3pm and already dark. Watching the tiniest of snowflakes drifting past the window, John was struck by the urge to do something he hadn't done in years, apart from the odd furtive hour here and there on his days off as a junior doctor.

Taking the stairs at a leisurely pace and humming quietly to himself, he crossed his room and reached under the far side of the bed, pulling out a battered leather case, monogrammed with HW. His grandfather, Hamish, had been a soldier in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, but had also had a stint as an instructor in the Scots Guards band. His instrument had been the flute, but John's delicate hands curved around the gleaming lacquered body of his own clarinet.

Taking it downstairs and setting up the music stand to the left of the table, John flicked his eyes through a few pieces of music before setting them down. He ran a few arpeggios to get himself used to the process of making the sounds as he wanted them again, then smiled. He'd decided to play his favourites.

He started with Saint-Saens' _Tarantelle_ _Number 6_, relishing the lightness of touch and nimble fingerwork it asked of him; although it was difficult to play, to him difficulty was something to confront and learn from. Running away from a scary thing made it _loom_, because you could only imagine what it looked like. He liked a challenge as a musician, a doctor and, evidently (he thought ruefully) as a flatmate, too. Finishing up, he turned his attention to something altogether more appropriate for the weather, plucking Mozart's Clarinet Concerto out of his memory banks and beginning to play. He fell straight into the music, concentrating manfully on the flow of the piece and the swell of the notes around him. When he played, the music became almost tangible, as though fine glitter had been swept up and blown around him in a perfect golden spiral. Still playing, the tiny part of his brain not focused on the sound idly wondered if this was what synaesthesia felt like.

As John, eyes gazing absently out into the frigid night, had started to play, a dark figure made its way up the stairs. For some reason, he felt something pulling him into an unnatural quietness, lulled into silence by the hypnotic melody drifting out from under the front door. Stopping on the landing to push the door open, Sherlock peered 'round it and took a long blink.

_When he opened his eyes, instead of the dark wood of their door, he saw an ornately corniced hall, solid oak floors and a jumble of bags and coats banked up against the wall. A long crocodile of plastic chairs snaked out across the wide room, forming three rows arranged in a loose semicircle. He had been coming here for a year now, looking forward to every Saturday as a day release from Harrow-on-the-Hill Asylum for the Junior Insane. School was nothing but a series of infuriating 'traditions', dull lessons, mindless prep and the dangerously anti-intellectual battleground that was the cricket pitch. The words 'Why can't you be more like your brother, Holmes?' mingled with being sent to Coventry for three weeks for revealing Croucher's payment of a younger boy to write his Greek translations for him combined to make boarding lonely and unpleasant, even if he wasn't quite the sociopath Dr Pontine thought he might be. Here he could craft, and create, and use his talents as tools to garner at least a little bit of respect, even amity. Father had taught him that being right was equally as important as being liked, but Sherlock's own response had been to wonder why he should bother getting people to like him if they didn't understand him. Here, they understood him, and tolerated his observant nature (to a point). His playing made up for his awkwardness; being creative could make you outcast when you outclassed everybody else, but here a sense of satisfaction was the ideal, rather than a social faux pas. Quirking his mouth up in a 'hello' sort of a gesture to Emily and Minty, Sherlock was drawn to a new starter rather older than many of those in the senior group. _

**_Small. Blonde. Kind eyes: blue. Sadness behind them. Weariness the dominant emotional condition. Old clarinet, the same one he learned on judging by the wear on the fingerpads. Compact: rugby player. Seems friendly/open. Less need for reticence than usual. [Friends don't stay friends with me. Hypothesis not yet disproven: evidence currently empirically sound. Delete.] Bruises on the neck and forearm: shaped like hands. Too big to be a fellow student. Body language tilts towards Mrs Fletcher and away from Mr Frei: conclusion: father is abusive. Is he alright? Those bruises look nast- [Delete. Delete. Delete. Caring is not advantageous to successful completion of one's life goals.] He's coming over, but the woodwind section's that way..._**

"_Hello, I'm John, John Watson. Nice to meet you. I've just joined; this fits in better with studying than the NYO." The new boy held out a small hand. Sherlock shook it, noting John's strong handshake and ready smile. "What's your name?" "I'm Sher-"_

"_Alright, everyone. Places for tuning and warm-ups, please. Woodwind sectionals are in Room 1, Brass in Room 2, Strings in Room 3. Piano and Percussion stay here, please." _

_Shutting his mouth with a snap, Sherlock snatched up his violin and music folder, following Emily and Minty down the hallway. _

_Three hours of rehearsals later, the group came back together to compose and play as a small and compact orchestra. After Verdi (dull), Saint-Saens (passable), Corelli (Mediaeval frippery) and Salieri (underrated, actually) came Mozart (oh for God's sake). _

_His interest in the piece they were to be playing was piqued when John Watson got up and came to the front, half-facing his peers and watching Mr Frei._

_Mrs Fletcher trilled, "Our last piece this afternoon will be Mozart's Clarinet Concerto; it's John's first time playing with us, so do as you always do and take your cues from the soloist. Play with, rather than across. Okay, whenever we're ready."_

_As Mr Frei gave the signal, they all paused, poised to begin the second the baton came down. When John began to play, there was an audible intake of breath in the room. Sherlock had heard mutterings and rumours about the new boy over lunch as he shared Mummy's pfeffernusse with Emily, Minty, and Ariadne and Oliver, the second and third violinists in the School's ensemble. "Apparently, he joined us so late because his mum was ill and then his dad wouldn't let him go into London on his own. That's what Anthea says, anyway. He said his granddad had a word and persuaded him to let him try for the NYO last year, and when he found us he decided to audition," Minty whispered. _

_Oliver chimed in, "I've heard he tried out as a weekender for the Royal Conservatoire when he turned 16 and got in, but his dad wouldn't let him go." They had all goggled at the last part, but seemed sceptical that anyone could get into music college that young. Even Jessica Ando, their star pianist, had had to wait until she was 19 before the RCM had given her a place. _

_Now they were all eating their words-even Sherlock, who hadn't actually said anything._

_John's nimble fingers fairly flew over the keys, and his playing was delicate and definite at the same time; clear but not stolid, technically brilliant but not sterile or boring, gossamer-light and undeniably _present_ all at once. Sherlock thought that if only he had heard Mozart being played like that, perhaps he would have learned to see him as a composer, rather than a charlatan. He risked a glance over at Emily, finding her with moist eyes and a bright smile as she chipped in with the cello part. Ariadne was transfixed beside him, and Oliver shook his head minutely as they brought their bows down while John continued with his solo. _

_When, two weeks after that at the beginning of the summer hols, Father had banned him from the Saturday School for his abysmal school results, Sherlock had stormed up to his room. He'd sworn that until his dying day, he would never study, never cram, never write a report or an essay until he could live this house and take Mummy's violin with him. As Mycroft, home for the holidays, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, Sherlock put his violin away and reached for Cicero instead. As he thought of his safe haven, he blinked back bitter tears. He would never hear the clarinet played that way again, and all because Father couldn't understand that music was the only thing that made him good._

Coming out of the rehearsal room in his Mind Palace, Sherlock noted with sadness that John had stopped playing. Pushing open the door and setting his violin carefully upon the kitchen table, he smiled at John, who had assumed the expression of a startled hare.

"Erm. Hello-how much of that did you hear?"

"Just the Mozart. Was there more?"

John nodded. "Not nearly as good as when I was younger. I'm a bit out of practice now."

"I thought it was exquisite."

John blinked, nonplussed at the uncommonly high praise being meted out by a self-proclaimed sociopath. He tried to respond, but Sherlock had already gone up to his room. Sighing and rubbing the back of his neck with a sort of pleased embarrassment, John headed out to Tesco for milk and some actual _food_ with a quick yell to Sherlock as he went. When he got back, Sherlock was curled up on the sofa in his 'thinking' pose. He managed to persuade him to eat some of his famous carbonara, settling down to read some George R R Martin as Sherlock jumped up to pore over some experiment to do with leaf mould and the discolouration of stainless steel, presumably for the ongoing Case of The Forest Fencer.

When John padded up to his bedroom a little while later, he stopped. A page of photographs from a prospectus had been pinned to the door with the captions underneath. He peered at them. One was of a freckly, dark-haired girl playing a flute alongside a cellist with a heart-shaped face ('Anthea Cross and Emily Scutiro'), and another of part of the woodwind section; himself, Lewis Donaldson the bassoonist, and Claire Clark, who'd played the oboe. Another one underneath showed three violinists-a blonde girl ('Emily Wheeler'), a Chinese boy ('Oliver Newlyns-Tang'), and a pale, thin boy with long fingers and a mop of curly hair: 'Sherlock Holmes'.

On the underside, in Sherlock's untidy scrawl, there was a missive.

"John,

Even if you are, as you say, 'out of practice', the Mozart reminded me of this. When we met that summer I did not know you. Now that I do, I feel there may be friendship in saying that the things I missed most when I was taken out of Summer School by my Father were twofold. Firstly, I missed having a place where no-one minded people who were odd like me, because what was oddness but a creative stimulus? The second was a friendly clarinettist."

John turned to find Sherlock peering up the stairs at him rather sheepishly. He smiled, then Sherlock smiled, and he bade his friend goodnight. They never spoke about it again, but at the next Christmas party both instruments miraculously appeared, side-by-side on the scrubbed oak table.

* * *

A/N II: Yes, I know. Sentiment, shameless fluff, OOC behaviour from Sherlock...sorry all! I get the feeling that Sherlock became detatched because no-one ever got him. I never had friends until I went to uni partly because I was a loner; I wasn't interested in the things that other people cared for, so I never really had anything to talk about. I was very much the one that didn't get the in-jokes. Thankfully I am pretty emotionally well-adjusted, because my Mum and Dad are not like Mr Holmes...There's also the small point that the mates I have now are all _awesome_ human beans.

I actually get the impression that Mycroft and Sherlock really would have gone to a public school; I toyed with making it Westminster to foreshadow their political involvement, but I like the idea of Sherlock being forced into an Old Harrovian tie occasionally. The name Dr Pontine is a psychology joke; one of the harder things you learn to say in second-year Psychology at university is 'pedunculopontine tegmental nucleus'. Bit of a mouthful, but I nearly got a fiver for being able to say it, and so won't complain. The NYO is the National Youth Orchestra.

Also: spot the minor character!


	23. Christmas 1 of 4: In Arduis Fidelis

Chapter 20: In Arduis Fidelis

A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope that wherever you are, and whomever you're with, you are having a lovely time (even if you do end up wanting to strangle your relatives as usually happens 'round these parts). Hopefully you will like the coming chapters enough to consider them a Christmas gift rather than the literary equivalent of a lump of coal; they're all about John surprising those around him with acts, skills or qualities, as that seems to be what this fic has morphed into in the months since that first chapter leapt out of my head and onto the page. There are four of them.

Special Christmas greetings to all those who've favourited the story (or, Heaven forefend, my author page), and to all those who've reviewed since this began, particularly some of you who've consistently taken time out of your day to write something:

**johnsarmylady; chappysmom; ArtyDiane; Alohilani Hudson; Howlynn; VorpalSword; book girl fan; hjohn302; Khelc-sul Renai; Jfreak; YYHfan-KB; TYRider; Prothoe; Raychaell Dionzeros; aliceAmnesia; Laranha Steadyblade (love your name-sort of hoping it's Viking/lore in origin); spedreder; otala; Confictura; MapeleafCameo and SakuraBlossom62. **

**Feliz Navidad/Joyeux Noel/God Jul/Buon Natale and Merry Christmas!**

A/N II: IAF is the motto of the Royal Army Medical Corps, and seems very apt to describe 'very loyal, very quickly' John Watson: the perfect person to have on your side in a crisis situation. I got it round the wrong way, not never having learned Latin: I've used it the right way before and am rather annoyed at myself for having mucked it up, but never mind! Thank to the reviewer who pointed it out! There's a bit of experimenting with tenses here: I'm not sure whether or not it works, so critique away! Fluff-fluff-fluff-fluffity-fluff, but a) it's Christmas, and b) if anyone could engineer this it would be the Holmes-Holmes-Watson triad.

* * *

_November_

Rifling through the sheaf of letters bundled up on the coffee table one morning ("Bored!"), Sherlock had come over to John, who was diligently scraping the last of the strawberry jam out of the jar with a knife and taking care to spread right to the edges of his toast. He had plopped a letter down near his plate, coming far too close for comfort to dropping it _on his bloody breakfast_. Finishing his task, and giving the last remnants clinging to the groove under the rim up for lost, John had glanced over to the letter with a piece of crust halfway between mouth and plate. Frowning, he had set it down on the plate and picked up the letter with his clean hand. The writing had been precise, but sloping, in a hand he would have recognised anywhere; the postmark said BFPO. British Forces Post Office-it could only be from Bill Murray. He had opened the letter, finding with a smile a picture of his old unit, grinning and waving in the Afghan sun having beaten the Cherry Berries in the annual 7-a-side footie game.

_[Address redacted]_

_7__th__ November_

_Dear John, _

_Hope this letter finds you well, and that your mad flatmate hasn't blown up all your possessions yet. Met Aonghas Macalister a few days ago when we were out in Chaghcharan and he was asking after you; he'd heard on the Scablifter grapevine that you'd been nabbed. He's a Corporal now. Bloody Hell, I feel old..._

_Anyway, I'm signing my discharge papers in the New Year, so this is my last tour here. It's a bastard, but I won't be home for Christmas this year, just like us in '09 (the one with the 'Scottish' custard: you probably mind that one better than I do for some reason). Annie and the girls were really upset, and so was I, but Richie Foster's still recovering from the incident up in Mazar and they needed a trauma consultant, so here I am. Other than that, there's not much to report. Not much enemy action so far this month, but who knows, eh? Hope to see you in the new year, pal._

_IAF/KBO,_

_Bill_

_PS: Pass on a thank-you to your housekeeper for those Hallowe'en biscuits, will you? They went down a storm in A&E, and for some reason half of Radiology decided to pop by for a chinwag just after they arrived...Nothing is sacred!_

_December_

11th December

After writing to Annie Murray, whom he'd kept in touch with, John knew which FOB Bill was posted at in Kandahar. He had also managed to track down others in his unit and Bill's who _had_ been able to come home for Christmas, and asked them to complete the same letter-writing 'homework' he'd given to Ailish and Rhona, his two wee girls. He had spent a very enjoyable afternoon with Mrs H and _Sherlock_, for heaven's sake, making scores of various Christmassy gingerbread shapes down in 221A, packaging them up in cellophane bags and ferrying them outside to where Angelo's van was waiting. From there, they went out to a distribution centre for forces mail, ready to be shared out along with the letters as part of the Christmas boxes made up for soldiers who wouldn't get anything from family on the day.

Mrs Hudson had beamed at him as he placed silver dragees on the tips of the snowflakes with surgical precision, and he had ended up in gales of laughter as an impatient Sherlock had torn open a box of icing sugar and emerged, coughing and spluttering, from the cloud with his curls liberally dusted, then proceeded to ice perfectly straight lines onto the stars' edges with his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth.

Now, though, he sat in front of the fire with a steaming mug of mulled wine, watching Sherlock attempting to make fake snow from a packet and grumbling as it stuck together in clumps. After a call to Aonghas up at home in Oldmeldrum, he had managed to procure a small bottle (gratis, thankfully) of 15-year old Glen Garioch whisky. Now he had to check where he needed to send it. His next call was to an ex-directory number which routed him to a nondescript office in Bloomsbury, then to a central exchange in leafy Cheltenham, before ringing in a plush oak-panelled room near the British Museum.

"Mycroft Holmes.""

"Mycroft, it's John."

"Ah, Doctor Watson. I do hope my brother has not indisposed you again. A minor household fire, perhaps?"

"Actually, Mycroft, it's about the case in Wittenburg. Anthea mentioned you were appreciative and had apparently agreed to keep a favour for me?"

"Ah, yes. I do recall that. I was under the impression you had forgotten."

John all but smirked down the phone. He could practically hear the elder Holmes's 'Oh, bugger'. "I realise it's a big ask, but do you think you could speak to whoever's done the Army's duty rota for the last week of this month? There's a substitution needing made..."

A few hours, and one (honestly) successful medical later, the British government furnished his signature on a slip of paper authorising a temporary suspension of one Captain Watson's medical discharge.

25th December

It was around 9pm in Kandahar, and Bill was catching up on some much-needed sleep in his digs when a rap on the metal siding startled him awake. Two Army Air Corps soldiers appeared in the doorway.

"Major Murray? You've been ordered to report to base command centre immediately."

Their faces were grim, and he shuddered as they led him at a fast trot through the maze of dirt paths in the base. He was expecting to see a lawyer, or worse, a padre standing in front of his CO and the camp command team.

What he got was John Watson.

A couple of years older and a fair bit greyer, he was nonetheless slim and compact in his old, immaculate uniform. Bill noted with satisfaction that the old sparkle in John's blue eyes was well and truly back as they returned his puzzled look with no small amount of amusement. They clapped each other on the back in a joyful hug, then stepped back to look at one another.

"John...what are you doing here mate? I mean, great to see you, and looking so well, but why?"

"Shift change. You are hereby relieved of your post for the next shift."

"What? But you were discharged!"

"I passed my medical, and a staff change needed doing. You haven't had a full day off in a fortnight."

"I-i-it's Christmas Eve," he stammered.

John gave him his old, wolfish poker grin.

"Exactly."

That was how Bill found himself being bundled onto the same untraceable aircraft that had brought John Watson back to Kandahar and dropped off, bewildered after a 16-hour plane-and-Jeep journey, at the end of a cul-de-sac in Aldershot.

Walking under the still, clear sky, he grinned as his boots crunched on the hoar frost underfoot. It was 9am, and families were gathering excitedly round their trees on a bitterly cold Christmas morning. Coming up to the front garden of number 62 with its bare-branched young plum tree he stopped, running a hand over his beret and hoisting his pack up onto his shoulder. A tall, thin, auburn-haired man stood silent as a ghost at the outer corner of the lawn.

"Major? Mycroft Holmes. Your wife and children have not been informed you are coming, but I daresay they will be too excited to wonder who I am, as you are doing."

Bill shuddered at the appraising look in the cool blue eyes before straightening his back. He knew this Holmes gadgie was important, and assumed he was a relative of John's daft bugger of a flatmate, but he decided he would worry about that later. Right now...

"Dr Murray? Mycroft Holmes, Civil Service." 'Mycroft' was now smiling brightly, the picture of genteel charm. "If you could bring your girls outside, I'd be most grateful. "

Sending him a strange look halfway between pride and irritation, Mycroft Holmes swept past him with an obsequious smile, pausing to murmur, "I'll leave you to it, shall I? The same driver who took you here will be here to pick you up at 0700 hours tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Major Murray."

Annie's face as she and the kids descended the steps was pure confusion. She looked up, obviously scunnered, and stopped dead, stunned.

"Bill?"

"Apparently John has friends in high pla-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence as two wee bundles in spotty dressing gowns barrelled into his legs. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. There had always been the sense that John felt he somehow owed Bill for his actions on that Sunday.

Stubborn bugger. Now he definitely owed him a dram.

* * *

A/N III: There are a couple of Scottish terms in here, so here's a lexicon.

Wee - Small.

Scunnered – Confounded, either in the sense of being frustrated or stalled in a course of action or in the sense of being flummoxed or confused. There's an even better word for that: dumfoonert!

Gadgie – A word in the Glaswegian dialect for a man. I don't know how common it is nowadays, but I like it.

Dram – A measure of whisky. The size of it depends on the generosity of the pourer, but it usually corresponds roughly with a pub measure.

Oldmeldrum is an actual place in Aberdeenshire (the traditional recruiting ground for Macalister's regiment, the Black Watch), and Glen Garioch is a malt whisky distilled there. I used to live round those parts, so it's lovely to be able to include the area here. KBO stands for Keep Buggering On, a nicely salty way of telling someone to keep their chin up.


	24. Author's Note Number Three

A/N: Apologies for the not-a-chapter update, all. My muse has run off with the remains of a bottle of port and is refusing to come out until I've actually done some of the massive pile of work sitting on my desk...I hope to have another chapter up tomorrow, and the last two of the four in this arc up by the 3rd. Sorry everyone!

Also: Happy Hogmanay!


	25. Christmas 2 of 4: Kindness

Sherlock Dari Drabble Chapter 21

Kindness

A/N: Sorry for late update, all. Hogmanay/New Year's Day celebrations sort of got in the way, so I wasn't able to post on Monday morning. Here's part 2 of 4 of the Christmas and New Year chapter set. I used to work for a homelessness charity: this chapter is for the people who came through our doors and the dedicated people who take the time to volunteer. It sounds sappy, and it probably is, but you need to be a singular type of person to be able to take that kind of job. I couldn't! Rae's character is just a snapshot of one person's reasons for being homeless; it's really easy to give an impression that there's only one reason for becoming homeless, and that people who are homeless (whether they're rough sleeping or not) come from one walk of life: hopefully this chapter steers clear of that. I don't know exactly what homeless services in London are like, but the idea of night shelters and places like St-Martin-in-the-Fields is the same wherever you go: a warm meal, a safe place to sleep for the night, and dignity for anyone who comes through your doors.

* * *

_2003_

Rae looked around as he entered the hall, keeping a watch out for anyone with a bad rep as he took his usual seat next to the Christmas tree. Couldn't be too careful, what with all the new faces at the shelter every week: vigilance was his watchword. He was a soldier, after all. One of the support workers came over to him with his cuppa, just the way he liked it: two sugars and a dash of milk in the blue stripy mug. He sighed, sinking into the warmth of the chair and cradling his hands around the cup. Nice to be out of the cold, what with all the revellers at their office Christmas parties stumbling over his sleeping spot. This year hadn't been bad for getting shouted at, but the shelter was the place to go when it got below zero-tonight was bitterly cold, and he figured it was time to check in with the ladies and gents of St Martin's.

He'd first come to St-Martin-in-the-Fields a few years ago, after a tip off from one of the nicer coppers on his patch, a Sergeant Le-something. He'd taken places in hostels over the years, but getting to a tenancy was a gradual thing for most of 'em, so a few years down the line he was only just starting to think about looking for something longer. He glanced up as Janey, one of the old-timer volunteers, said hello to one of the new ones; a young blond lad was standing in the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves with his legs akimbo and obviously listening as she told him where everything was. He was obviously the type to get stuck in as he washed his hands, picked up a knife and began to crack on with the pile of carrots by the sink without another word. He admired that. A few of the people who came to volunteer did it to make themselves feel better about their own comfortable lives; some did it for the experience; a lot of them, like this lad, seemed to be doing it because they felt right about it. He wasn't complaining-a helper was a helper whatever their reasons-but it was nice to feel that someone was doing it because they wanted to.

He sat with Bob, one of the vicars that helped out over Christmas, talking about Fulham and the Tube works, and reminiscing about Christmases in London when they were little boys. He was only thirty-eight, but the street made you weary quickly. After a while, he noticed the soup being ladled into the warmers and set off to the queue. He noticed the young lad, now stirring a huge pot of custard for the jam roly-poly, out of the corner of his eye. Picking up his tray, he walked along past Yvette, Sam, Janey and Robin for his soup and sausage casserole, relishing the savoury smell as he refilled his cuppa and then slid back into his seat. Simon was sitting in the seat across from his, another old-hander having a night out of the cold and rain. They chatted for a while about the new plants in the gardens of the Church; he wasn't one for Bible-bashing himself, but Simon had always been drawn to it all, and volunteered to use his experience as a gardener to help them tend the roses in the spring and summertime. Looking up, they smiled at each other, little boys in bigger bodies as two large bowls of pudding and custard were set down in front of them.

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Naw, lad. Take a seat."

It was Simon who had spoken, but it was Rae who had his suspicions proved right as the young 'un from the kitchens plopped himself down in the next seat along. Simon nodded a goodbye, grasping his hand and beetling off to stake out a bed next to the heater.

"I'm John," the newbie said, holding out a hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

"Rae. D'you know, the last time anyone called me 'sir' was the best part of twenty year ago; nice to meet you too, John."

John's forehead crinkled. "Falklands?"

Rae could feel his eyebrows go up into his fringe. "How did you know that? Has Janey been talking about me?"

Realising how it must have sounded, the boy shook his head. "Takes a soldier to know a soldier."

Raising one eyebrow this time, Rae half-turned to meet the young man's open gaze. "What's your regiment, soldier?"

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, sir. I'm one of the Medical Officers."

"You a stretcher-bearer?"

"A doctor. I'm on leave."

"You not got a family you should be with? It's only a few days 'til the 25th now."

The young man smiled wistfully but didn't reply. He frowned, his attention caught by Rae's left thumb.

"Looks sore. Is it a new break?"

Rae nodded, interested. The kid hadn't asked how he'd hurt himself, just wanted to know how he could help. They bantered about the army; he'd been a Green Beret, back in the day, and he poked fun at these lucky buggers in their tented camps in lovely hot countries, swallowing as he remembered hunkering down behind a rock at Goose Green on the way to fight the Argies. John grinned, making the point that heat stroke was just as dangerous as freezing while gently and calmly strapping his thumb and cleaning up the shallow cut on his palm. His eyes were kind and sad as they took in his hands; Rae was used to shrinking away, and the lad looked gratified as he consented to put his hand on the table as he worked.

When it came time for the kitchen volunteers to leave, Rae noticed John lingering by his stuff. He turned to say something to Janey, popped a bundle beside his bags and left with a cheery wave.

Loping over, Rae gingerly picked up the bundle and was momentarily stunned. A warm down coat, full of pockets and with a snug hood, hung heavy and substantial in his hands. He read the note pinned to the front.

_Noticed you didn't have a coat, and I'm only a half hour's walk away. Merry Christmas._

_Lt John Watson,_

_BFPO Box 60975_

_c/o Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers_

_For if you want to write._

* * *

A/N: One of the major reasons for people becoming homeless is a mental health issue, which means that ex-servicemen and women can be vulnerable to becoming homeless (whether or not that means sleeping rough or not). We might meet Rae again, you never know...The Falklands War lasted from 2nd April-14th June 1982; obviously, the Argies are the Argentinian forces against which British forces were fighting. Goose Green was one of the major offensives of the war and involved landing Green Berets (Royal Marines) on the shore of the main island.

I have no idea how the BFPO works, so have used a PO Box as it seemed logical. Happy New Year, everyone! May you have health and fruitfulness, and adventures aplenty!


	26. Christmas 3 of 4: Coda

Sherlock Dari Drabble Chapter 22

Coda

A/N: Hi all! Thank-you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter; a couple suggested a sequel, so here's a wee coda with Rae in it. The presents at the start are a nod to something that a lot of companies here do in getting involved with charities. The charity I worked for got presents, funding and wrapping services from different businesses-some of them year-in, year-out, and others on a short-term basis. The thought that went into them was just lovely.

The idea is that John came to volunteer regularly, but stopped at the later end of the decade as his experience became more valuable. This is post-Reichenbach so it's quite sad. Sorry all! The next chapter is super-cuddly, I swear.

* * *

_2012_

Rae glanced over the large pile of presents on the kitchen table, many of them beautifully wrapped by helpers from the big department stores. He checked the numbers off on their list of regulars, with a few extras just in case, then took a recce of the chipolatas and potatoes roasting in the oven. This was his first Christmas season as a Support Worker, and his third in his flat, and it still felt odd to be on the other side of the serving hatch. Janey smirked, handing him the napkins so he could set the tables as he made a face at her.

"Come on, Janey lass, you know decorating's not my strong suit..."

"Well then, maybe it'll do you good to learn a little bit of window-dressing!"

They laughed heartily, teasing each other good-naturedly for the fifteenth year in a row; Stephen, Graham, Suzette and Lisa bustled through the door with armfuls of Christmas crackers and bags of sweets, bundled up against the cold as Bob, Aiden and the others swapped their dog-collars for warm jumpers and got stuck in.

Over the hubbub, Rae turned to Janey again.

"So if that's us lot in, who've we got volunteering this year?"

"Erm, Alex, Jack, Claire, Saul, Mhairi, Rhoda and Rachel. Luke said he'd spoken to a couple of the old hands, but I'm not sure who else we'll get. We should be more than fine, though-that's fifteen just as we are."

Just as they were gearing up to open the doors, tinsel and paper chains strung across the hall and simple white lights twinkling on the tree, the side door creaked open. Janey's eyes turned sad as a slightly stooped figure, leaning heavily on a cane, slowly crossed the floor and slipped noiselessly into the kitchen.

They'd all heard of John's exploits with Sherlock Holmes. The ones with better computer skills had kept abreast of his blog, and many of them had gone to lay flowers at St Bartholomew's in the weeks after _it_ happened. They had seen John on Newsnight, excoriated by Jeremy Paxman as 'an educated man become a sad shadow of delusion' and followed the stories about the evidence against Richard Brook as the policeman at the centre of the scandal had built a case through months of meticulous work. In a way, it was sadder to think that Sherlock Holmes had jumped out of the frame when a few more months would have changed the game. Many of them had been in his network and had relied on his generosity, so they were surprised to find a tall, auburn-haired man stalking the same streets with a brolly and a wad of cash, making the same payments to the same people and never missing one.

Now, though, after all the media coverage and the 'no smoke without fire' and the hurried apologies, Rae could see the true _human_ cost of Sherlock Holmes' downfall. Although he looked better than the last time they'd run into each other in Montague Street, John wasvery different from the fresh-faced boy who'd given him his jacket. His gait was weary, his face more lined and gaunt than Rae had ever seen it, even in the Christmas after he'd been pensioned off. His eyes were rheumy and red, full of pain and rage. He looked as though he didn't have a home anymore; the word on the grapevine had been that he'd moved out of the Baker Street flat, so Rae supposed he didn't. He looked _old_ and lonely, grey-haired and edgy. His left hand was trembling. A grim ghost of a smile flitted across John's face as he greeted Rae and set to work on the custard pot.

John stayed in the kitchen, silent and grave, as they chattered and doled out the Christmas lunch and the labelled presents. He puttered about washing dishes, then looked up as Luke poked his head 'round the door, Rae watching from the corner by the tree.

"D'you want to come out for the lighting of the candle, John?"

The doctor's face was half in shadow as he nodded, limping out and standing right at the back. After the last candle in the middle of the advent wreath was lit to signal the fact that it was Christmas Day, John gave a small, watery smile.

As they cleared up a little while later, Rae ambled over to John, who was putting the decorations back in their boxes, wrapping the glass angels in their tissue paper with doctorly tenderness.

"It was good to have you, John. It's always nice when people keep coming back-shows they've not stopped caring, doesn't it?"

The doctor's smile was uncharacteristically bitter as he turned toward him.

"I stirred the custard pot, Rae. Any one of you could have done that. I don't talk, I don't interact, I can't even bloody walk right anymore! I'm just a useless old bachelor who still makes two cups of tea when he gets in from work at night and can't live in his old flat because it's full of his best friend's mess!"

"And yet you still came. Why did you come, John, if you weren't sure what you could do? We give up so easily in this day and age, John, and yet you still keep going. You keep buggering on, and you never stop giving a monkeys about how other people feel. You could have sat at home with a bottle of good scotch and a box of mince pies, but you came halfway across London because we still count as people to you. That's something a lot of these people don't get, ever. Not a dicky bird. Even if you don't speak, they notice you're there. Even if you only do the custard, they still know you made it so that they could eat it."

It could have just been his imagination, but John seemed a little brighter as he picked up his coat and navy scarf and loped out into the frigid night.

The next year, when John came to St Martin's his easy camaraderie and his medical kit came too.

* * *

A/N II: Advent wreaths are lit in some Protestant denominations and in the Catholic church to mark the four Sundays before Christmas and the fifth candle, in the centre, is lit on Christmas morning. It's one of the things that makes me think 'Yay, it's Christmas'-the rule is that you can't listen to carols until the first Sunday of Advent. After that, there are no restrictions...


	27. Christmas 4 of 4: Cooking

Christmas Chapter 4 of 4 Cooking

A/N: John can cook! This is (hopefully) funnier than many of the drabbles here; no angst, no whump, no soul-searching or nasty criminals: just nice things given to friends. This is set around the same time, in a post-Hiatus Christmas. As regards the last but-one chapter, one kind reviewer wondered what Sherlock would have thought of John going back to Kandahar to relieve Murray. My angle (which there won't be a chapter on-sorry folks!) is that Sherlock was mightily displeased, but that he knew John wouldn't take no for an answer on this one. I promised fluff, and here is fluff in three different perspectives! I might write another part to this. This is Christmas chapter 4 of 4-I thought it was rather too late in the day to be writing another seasonal chapter after this one, so I took the coward's way out...

* * *

_Greg, 19__th __December_

The rain fell in large droplets, pattering down onto the pavements, a freezing reminder of many solitary Christmases gone. By the time he'd walked from the Tube to 221B, he was soaked to the skin despite having borrowed one of Mycroft's slightly less _kill-y _umbrellas after looking out at the grey Kensington sky and saying, "Shit." Mycroft had lingered, mouth turning up at the corner as Greg tried to remember which brollies were which, before sitting down at his desk to finish some paperwork and switching on the lamps as the sky darkened.

John (and Sherlock, probably) had invited him over for dinner that night knowing that he and Mycroft would be leaving to visit Greg's mum before they all converged on the estate for Christmas and Boxing Day. He had to admit that although Sherlock had occasionally cooked when bored, in the immediate aftermath of his living room detox (French like his mother, naturally, and done very well), he was intrigued to see what Three Continents Watson had gleaned in from his wanderings in terms of culinary knowledge. Coming up to the door, he was met by Mrs Hudson, walking stiffly up to the steps with her hands full of shopping. Smiling gently and taking the milk and potatoes without a word, Greg held the door open for her as she beamed up at him.

"Ooh, hello! Come to see the boys, have you? Oh, I do hope you've not got a case on in weather like this! How are you, dear, and how's Mycroft? He's not been around in a while, I 'spect he's busy, poor thing..."

She puttered around contentedly, putting her things away in the right places before patting his arm in a motherly sort of way. "You just pop those bags there and I'll see to them. Off you go, I'm sure I'll see you soon at any rate!" Smiling and nodding, Greg turned out of the flat and up the stairs to 221B, his nostrils filled with the smell of Christmas baking.

Sherlock, as usual, was sprawled on the couch in his thinking pose. Unusually, he turned his head and smiled in greeting as Greg appeared in the doorway setting the brolly out on the landing. "Lestrade."

"Ah, Greg! Hello; the stew's just about ready, as are the potatoes. The bread's just cooling down a bit, and the treacle tart's in the food bit of the fridge."

Greg raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who merely gave an enigmatic smile as John came round the corner from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a clean tea towel before draping it over his shoulder and grabbing the cutlery. After setting out the table, John turned back, coming out with a loaf of bread on one of the serving plates. The loaf was shiny, with a floury, crackling crust, the slices already cut showing the moist, slightly dark inside off to perfection. "Is that sourdough?"

"Surprised, are we?" John grinned as Greg whipped a piece off the board, eating it without butter even as Sherlock slathered it on. "Baking was always what I did on my days off on leave. Good stress reliever. A Yank mate of mine got a package of homemade things from his mum, and when I tried it I wrote to ask her for the recipe because it tasted like the ones my granddad used to make. He was a baker and confectioner, used to leave his loves to rise for hours. It seems really sentimental-_don't_, Sherlock-but I wanted to try it the way he had, and her recipe was the closest thing I could get."

Greg had to stay his hand to stop himself from grabbing another slice as a wonderful savoury smell wafting across the kitchen reminded him that the actual meal was still to come. A well-loved dark blue casserole dish was set down on the table alongside some simply boiled cabbage and a tray of potatoes that had been slowly cooked in stock. When John lifted the top from the dish, the rich aroma made him want to dive in. Sherlock smiled at him knowingly (_what's new?_) as John doled the food out. "Venison stew-we ended up with some lovely stuff couriered down from a grateful client in the Trossachs. It's a Swedish recipe, actually, from a friend of mine when I was a locum in A&E at Kings."

As Greg ate, he could see the meat falling apart in the pot, so tender you could cut it with a spoon, and perfectly seasoned; the potatoes were crisp and soft and savoury, and it was one of the best plates of food he'd had in a very long time. Secretly, he put John's venison stew at the top of the list, higher even than the meal they'd had at the Ritz for Mycroft's birthday.

As John cleared away the plates, waving away Greg's 'it's only fair...', Greg could see Sherlock sitting up straighter. As the triumphant treacle tart was placed in front of them along with a bowl of softly whipped, vanilla-flecked cream, his eyes began to sparkle. Sherlock dived in as soon as John transferred a slice onto his plate, all friable pastry and sticky interior; they ate in companionable silence, then settled down to watch Doctor Who and Futurama.

Well, Greg and John did. Sherlock hunched over his microscope, hand sneaking out every so often to dig a spoon into a slice of leftover pie that John had strategically placed at his right hand side. A little 'hmm' of enjoyment could be heard as Sherlock continued to adjust the microscope at regular intervals.

John looked as though he was going to burst out laughing.

"Does he even know he's doing that?"

"I have no idea, but if he's eating, he's eating."

Greg left Baker Street at 11 o'clock with a neatly packed box of leftovers (including a piece of pie for Mycroft) and a new appreciation of the quiet side to the Watson-Holmes friendship and of John's unexpected craftiness...

_Mrs Hudson, 23__rd__ December _

Pottering around her kitchen fixing a cup of tea, and with Radio 3 on in the background, Martha smiled as she sank into her armchair, comfy slippers warming her feet as she took a few minutes of peace after the blether of Mrs Turner and her bridge girls. It had been a lovely birthday really, but a little bit of relaxation and some time away from Christmas sights and smells hit the perfect note as she watched the pale pink glow of the sky outside.

She was pulled out of her reverie by a soft rap on the front door.

"Come in!"

She smiled as John stuck his head around the door. He'd swapped his usual cable-knit for a deep fir-green jumper with a sort of Scandinavian design, and grinned as he set his burdens down on the table and gave her a rather sheepish cuddle which she returned with motherly enthusiasm. He closed his eyes, smiling and hugging her tightly to him, then turned his attention to the card and two boxes, one larger, one small. Sherlock had already been in that morning to wish her a happy birthday and drop off his present to her-a beautiful and elegant gold watch that had once belonged to his grandmother. She'd tried to give it back, of course, but he had muttered something about it being bad manners to give back presents and shot off to Barts suspiciously beady-eyed. She would tease him about it mercilessly at her boys' joint present to her-a lovely meal at Angelo's with all her friends around her before the madness of Christmas Day. It had been so hectic that, even as she made cookies for the Paediatric Unit at Barts and mixed up chutneys and jams for her girls' Christmas presents, she'd forgotten to decorate her flat. No point now, she thought, not when John had decorated so beautifully upstairs anyway.

Proffering the boxes, John smiled again. "I know it's not a watch, but I thought something homemade might be nice this year."

Eyeing him slightly quizzically, Martha opened the lid of the pale yellow box. Her eyes widened as she saw what John had made for her.

Christmas decorations.

Shimmering garlands of beads and wonderfully bright-smelling dried fruits, snowflakes painstakingly cut from thick paper woven through with silver threads and a lustrous wreath of holly, ivy, mistletoe and scarlet berries for her front door; all of them had surely taken weeks of work, and as John stepped back she could see the calluses and pinpricks on his fingers.

A shy smile worked its way across John's features as she let out a squeal of joy and hugged him to her. He worked quietly, helping her hang her presents, then left with a soft 'Happy Birthday'.

As she sat in the twinkling light of the lamp, refracted off of the hundreds of glass beads in the garland on her mantelpiece, Martha smiled as she sipped her tea and thought of both her boys.

_Sherlock and Mycroft, 26__th__ December_

Sherlock had been glum for much of Boxing Day as the usual package from Mummy hadn't turned up. Both of them knew that Mummy's health was deteriorating; she was 84 now, and her hands were starting to fall prey to arthritis, so the complicated process of making _pfeffernusse_ was now beyond her. Mycroft had always been favoured for his behaviour, but Sherlock's tempestuous nature and musical skill brought their mother's affection more easily than the Machiavellian tendency to behave with unerring attention to the internal politics of one's current situation. That sort of thing was more appreciated by Father, but Father was not the sort of man with time for such frivolous things as emotions. Sherlock's fragility and Mycroft's wish for recognition of his hard work meant that they were both much more likely to spend time with their mother, and Mycroft was nothing if not a dutiful son.

Knowing that hosting the traditional Boxing Day gathering would mean too much for Mummy to do, he was hosting a much smaller gathering (just he, Gregory, John, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, Anthea and Miss (ahem, Dr) Hooper) at their townhouse. As the morning unfolded, tendrils of watery light unfurling through the house, Mycroft was momentarily startled by the doorbell. Sherlock was standing on the doorstep, very gently holding Mummy's elbow as she shifted her stick into her other hand. John was carrying a large box, but held out a sturdy hand for her to grip as she pushed herself up the front step.

John had set the mysterious box down in the spacious kitchen, speaking softly to Mummy and listening intently as he took her coat and scarf and hung them on the rack. He made his way through with her, Mummy fixing both he and Sherlock with her sternest gaze.

"Now, neither of you are to come in to the kitchen for at least an hour! John is helping me with a project. No peeking!" She wagged her finger playfully at them before turning to the doctor.

Both of them smiled as John flanked the diminutive woman tottering determinedly towards the kitchen. As the hour wore on, Mycroft could _feel_ the impatience radiating from his younger brother, and it hadn't missed him, either. The tiny wafts from under the door were tantalising. Eventually (_finally_), John opened the door.

"She says you can come in now."

Mycroft's jaw dropped, Sherlock sucking in a quick breath of shock, as they took in tray after tray of perfectly formed, surgically precise _pfeffernusse_. Mummy sat on one of the low chairs, comfortably situated with a cup of tea having clearly recited the recipe to John, watching his every move as he made up the dough and formed the cookies. Obviously John had wanted the tradition to continue and, knowing that both he and Mummy were needed for the endeavour, had given her an opportunity to get involved in something she knew and loved. The loss of her dexterity had been harder for her to take than her worsening hearing or her failing balance, so John had come to the logical conclusion as to how to get her out of her depression. The confidence and sense of accomplishment shone through in Mummy's eyes as she held out the same old snowman-patterned plate that Sherlock had nearly broken with 'indoor pinball' at the age of four, and Sherlock's eyes were shining as he took a biscuit.

Mycroft caught John's searching gaze, the diagnostic eyes roving his face. Although he would kill anyone who ever dared insinuate it, Mycroft had to admit that no matter how prodigious one's sweet tooth, a cookie was always much harder to swallow with a lump in your throat.

* * *

A/N II: I did promise fluff-hope this delivers! In this, Mycroft is 48, Sherlock 38; it's about two years after a (shortened) Hiatus. The idea of getting older people involved in activities they enjoy, or using songs and films that they would have seen or heard when they were younger, is a really effective way to increase people's confidence, mental health and wellbeing. It's all about empowering people and replacing helplessness with a sense of self worth. Mummy is based on a composite of my granny and grandma. Also, having a birthday so near Christmas must be a bit rubbish-no chance to enjoy another special day in a gloomier part of the year!


	28. George Cross I

Chapter 22

A/N: The next three chapters are definitely not fluff. This is the resolution to the story arc about John's medals and awards; the first chapter is context, the second shorter and from John's perspective and the last from Bill's. It's going to be hard to read, folks, but I wanted to do justice to the people who risk this every day, whether I agree with their line of work or not. This is post Reichenbach: there's not enough time before it to have more than one Spring!

**Trigger warnings for the next three chapters: Blood, gore, hospital scenes, PTSD and depression, traumatic injury.**

* * *

It was a bright Spring morning when John made his way out into the park with Sherlock. The sunshine sparkled across the surface of the boating lake as a family of ducks waddled by. Sherlock smirked as John smiled lazily, flopping down on the warm grass; Sherlock had been _bored_ and John itching to get out into the blooming stretch of green, so they had picked up the carrot cake Mrs Hudson had left on the kitchen table, bought two bottles of juice ("Ginger ale, John? How very _Famous Five_."), and trekked out to people-watch. After sticking his middle finger up at Sherlock, whose rumbling laughter carried over the head of the overconfident squirrel who'd just stolen his crisps, John lay back with his hands under his head. He'd always watched clouds when he was a child, competing with Harry to see who could get the most disgusting meanings out of them (usually involving bogies). Surprisingly, Sherlock had also watched clouds as a child, though Mycroft had taught him Greek mythology while they did so. Doing something so simple with a friend who was so brilliant was something new to John. If he hadn't known Sherlock better (and he did still know him) he'd have thought Sherlock had learned to take time out to 'smell the flowers' and be mindful without thinking properly. It was their first Spring after his return, and John was still getting used to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock, on the other hand, was slowly getting used to Mary. Mary knew what had happened to him _before_ as she had worked with him at Bastion; when she had decided to move back onto Civvy Street, they had ended up working together at Tommy's and moved from friends to lovers. Surprisingly, Mary's keen sense of humour and love of music made her a fine match for Sherlock, who had obviously decided that, far from being 'the one with the freckles' (the erstwhile sister of 'the one with the nose'), she was an excellent fit for John. He had even made a concerted effort not to deduce her.

As the sun went in and the weather cooled, John sat up to find Sherlock sitting too, his eyes roaming the park for interesting things to deduce. They narrowed for a second.

"John, isn't that PC Cumming, the one Lestrade's trying to get onto CID training? And who's that with him? It must be his mother. And his older brother, sister-in-law, nephew and one of two nieces. The youngest is at home with the chicken pox."

"I don't want to know how you know that, but yes, it is."

"And you helped his brother in Afghanistan?"

"I did."

John realised al of a sudden that his answers had become short and military-clipped, as though he was relaying casualty information; Sherlock was looking at him with his 'deducing' face on, trying to work out why John had shifted modes.

He turned. The little family were coming towards them, Blair and Callum making smiling gestures of acknowledgement.

The two of them stood up to meet them. Cal spoke up first.

"Cap! Good to see you again! How're you doing? Blair said you'd left?"

"I did, back in 2010."

Cal's mum chimed in, "We tried to send you a letter, to thank you, but they just sent it back. We assumed you'd been posted somewhere else, that's why I wished you luck when we met a few years ago. Did you fancy a change?"

John kept his face perfectly neutral as Blair grimaced behind his mother.

"He got injured, mum."

Two shocked faces turned to him.

"That's right. I was shot in the shoulder."

Cal's face went slack with horror.

"Not Kandahar? They said a medic had been injured after we'd been hit, but I never thought..."

John gave a grim little nod, then swapped it for a smile that was just a little bit too bright.

"I'm okay now, though. I'm very lucky-God help me, I really enjoy working with this one, and I'm a senior doctor in Tommy's A&E now that my hand's back in working order."

Blair smiled, his mother and brother breathing sighs of relief. Gesturing to his bionic arm, Cal grinned.

"You've gotta make the best of what you've got, haven't you? I'm very lucky too-I got this lot out of the deal."

The little family moved on soon after that, Blair staying behind long enough to speak to them both privately as the little boy trundled happily ahead of them on his trike.

"Sorry about springing that conversation on you, Doc. I didn't tell them because I wasn't sure how much he knew. He never forgot that you stayed." Across the grass, Cal's voice echoed as the dark-haired boy went a little too close to the edge for comfort.

"Thomas J. Cumming, you come away from that pond right now!"

There was a flicker of shock in John's eyes as Blair walked away. "See you on Monday, Mr Holmes. See you on Tuesday night, Doc!"

As John numbly collected the basket and the blanket, Sherlock binning the bottles, Sherlock could see him favouring his left leg. By the time they got back to Baker Street, John had necked two ibuprofen dry, and hurried up to his room when they entered the flat.

Bearing a passable cup of tea, Sherlock made his way quietly up the stairs. Knocking on the door, he was met with silence.

"John? I've got tea."

He slowly opened the door, holding the mug in front of him like a shield. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring straight out of the window into the sky. His hand was shaking, and he was flexing his toes as though his calf were cramping. Sherlock sat next to him on the bed, proffering the mug. John took it with the barest of smiles, and they sat there in silence for an interminable length of time. Sherlock wasn't bored, however. John could never bore him, even when he was locked inside his own head.

After dark had already fallen, John turned to him.

"Can I tell you about Kandahar?"


	29. George Cross II

Chapter 23

"_It was about 10 in the morning when the call came through. There'd been an IED attack on one of the convoys coming in from patrol, lots of casualties, and they needed a surgeon. I volunteered to go along, I knew Bill would miss a day of leave at home if he went out, so we rushed out in our cars and scrambled the choppers to transport them to Bastion. We could only deal with so many of them at the FOB, so we thought we'd send majors and criticals there first. When we got there, it was just awful, I mean...blood everywhere, running down into the drainage ditches...thick black smoke coming from the burned-out trucks and charred metal everywhere..._

_Most of the worst ones had been evacuated by the first response medics, the ones who needed an A&E but who could wait for surgery. One lad, Cal Cumming, had been caught in the centre of the blast. It was only five minutes from base, but he wasn't going to make it if I didn't operate-his radial artery had been severed, and it looked like everything from the shoulder down was done for. It was mangled, a real mess, so we set to work. We were trying to save as much of it as we could, then an order came through to evacuate. I insisted that I was going to stay behind and finish up, make sure it was done with before we evacuated him. He went off in a chopper once I was satisfied with how he looked, and we started packing up our kit and getting the ones who didn't make it ready to go back to base. _

_We should've gone when we had the order. It was a double tap: they wait until the medics are there, 'til you think the worst is over, then they detonate another bomb or ambush you. They started shooting as we were finishing up; everyone had put their guns away. One of the Cherry Berries got hit in the thigh, and I'd scrambled out from behind our cover to get him. I'd dragged him back and I was treating him. I'd managed to get the bleeding stopped, and I heard someone shout my name as I went to wrap him up. I shifted about and turned my head, and then the bullet hit me. If I hadn't have moved, it would have hit me through the heart. _

_It...it was the worst pain imaginable. Like fire and knives and a spinal tap all at once. I fell down, and tried to get up. I managed to sit up and yell for backup, told them to take him first, that I would take care of it myself. They trusted my opinion, so they left me. I looked down, I was a bit fuzzy from the blood loss at this point, and I wondered why I had prickles in my shoulder, like a porcupine. It wasn't spines. It was my collarbone. I was sick, then. I'd packed it, and used the pixie dust, but I couldn't reach the entry wound. I was reaching around, then I rolled over and everything just went white. I remember bits and pieces after that, but nothing concrete apart from when they found me. I heard someone yelling they'd "found him", and Bill saying my name. He sounded so desolate, I think he thought I'd died. It was sort of an, "Oh, John...oh, John, no. No, no, no, no, no!" A groan, really... _

_Next thing I knew I was waking up in Birmingham and being put out to grass. If you wanted the full story, you'd have to ask Bill. He's the one who found me after."_

By now, John had pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes and hot tears of shame were trickling down his face. He looked up. Sherlock's eyes were watery too, and a long arm wrapped gently around his shoulders. Exhausted, John slumped bonelessly into Sherlock's tentative cuddle, feeling his eyes slide inexorably shut. The last thing he heard was a deep and rumbling voice just above his left ear.

"It's all fine, John. It's all fine."


	30. George Cross III

Chapter 24

A/N: We never learn whether or not Bill is a doctor or a nurse in the other fics. Originally, I was going to have him as a nurse, but it makes more sense for him to be a doctor, I think. Bill and his wife are both Scottish, so it seems logical to me that they would move back up there, especially if they've still got parents and other family living there; the Western General is a hospital in Edinburgh, staffed by wonderful people who are fantastically dedicated and knowledgeable, and they saved someone very close to me indeed, so I wanted to include it as a kind of homage.

**Extra trigger warning: drug dependency.**

* * *

A few days after their meeting in the park, Sherlock strode along the corridors of the Western General Hospital looking for the staff room. A flustered-looking and blushing young Health Services Assistant was leading him through the maze of corridors behind the A&E department, and dropped him in front of the door. She knocked, poking her head 'round the door and chirruping, "Dr Murray, there's a gentleman here to see you."

She turned and left, looking rather like a 19-year-old version of Molly as she scurried away. A tall, broad man with light brown hair and kind green eyes appeared in the doorway, beckoning him in. He seemed completely unconcerned by Sherlock's appearance at his workplace; John had sent off a flurry of texts before leaving for a nanosurgery conference in Stockholm, and he suspected they had been to warn Murray of his impending arrival.

"Mr Holmes, I take it? Bill Murray-come on in. You want to know about John's injury."

Sherlock nodded tersely.

"This may be shocking, even for someone used to the most baffling and disturbing of crime scenes, so I would advise you to make sure you really want to know what happened to John."

"I need to know. I keep...imagining how it must have been."

What Sherlock didn't say was that ever since John had nodded off that night, he himself had not slept well at all. He'd been having what normal people might explain as nightmares; the more accurate term would be night terrors. He had seen his best friend, cold and alone, covered in blood and crying out for salvation to a God he didn't believe would help him; seen how it could have played out. John Watson's name on a white stone cross, read out in front of the Cenotaph and he, Sherlock Holmes, still alone and half-mad in his dark flat, shooting the walls to try and drive away the White Lady that clung to his heart and made him _want_. He would never admit it to anyone, but John made him stable, made him want something bigger and deeper and more useful than a fine white powder to push into his veins.

Bill seemed to know all this anyway, and didn't say a word on the subject.

"So, John's told you what he remembers, yes?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I'll start from my side of it, then."

"_We were just finishing up with transfers to surgery. We'd been very lucky and not many had been seriously hurt. The last patient came in, a Para by the name of Mason, and the paramedics said that John had stayed behind and he was hurt, but it didn't seem too bad. Lots of blood, but he'd told them he was fine. That set the alarm bells ringing; John's always been a bad one for telling people he was okay when he'd actually been hurt badly. I spoke to the commander of the Paras at the scene, and they had no idea any of us were still there. We all looked at each other and knew we had to get out there, because John knew protocol, and protocol was to present yourself as a medic to the CO of whatever bunch of people was still hanging around in case they needed you. For him not to have told them meant he couldn't._

_Me and two other medics from Bastion, Jack Goodall and Sarah Weston, flew out to start looking for him. We knew he hadn't gone far, and the Cherry Berries were helping, and one of them yelled that they'd found someone. When even the Paras are scared, you know the shit's hit the fan. We got over the dune, and John was laying face down. There was...so much blood. He'd lost at least three pints, and when you get to that level of haemorrhage your circulatory system starts to shut down. The entry wound wasn't too bad, considering it was an AK-47, but when we turned him over..."_

Bill swallowed, shuddering.

"_When we turned him over there was a socking great hole in his shoulder. The artery was almost busted, and John had managed to patch it but it was still oozing blood. His lung was collapsing and his face...his face was just transparent white. He was barely breathing, and his collarbone was shattered, all the nerves disjointed...it was the worst shoulder shot I've seen in fifteen years of soldiering. I just remember shaking his shoulders and screaming at him to wake up. It looked like we were too late. He woke up a little bit, then went under again; we put a central line in and pushed some artificial blood through, intubated him, and loaded him onto the stretcher. As we were loading him into the chopper, he went into cardiac arrest. _

_We got him back, but he was hanging by a thread. When we wheeled him into Resus, everyone was just standing there aghast; they hadn't wanted to believe it was him. He'd worked at Bastion before and he was so friendly it was impossible to dislike him, so everyone was distraught when we pulled in. _

_We pushed the blood through and packed the wound with 4x4s; they're cloths soaked in a clotting solution. He was really ill, and I mean really ill. At one point, it didn't look like he was going to make it to theatre. When we cut his shirt away, it had stuck to him, and you could smell the iron of it. He had eight pints when we were down there and another five in surgery, and I lost count of how many they gave him in Intensive Care. He crashed on the table, and once they were finished they transferred him into the ICU. He made it through the first night, but then the wound went septic. They had to debride it three times in all, and each time they had to take more function-it was in his muscles, and it almost went into the bone. _

_By the third day, the wound was starting to heal, but the fever was so high that he was still critical. I'd stayed around and got my leave shifted, and stayed next to him for a few days as Mary took care of him. We were getting a cup of tea together when one of the nurses ran up. He'd crashed again; he'd woken up and he was hallucinating that he was dead and in Hell, and his heart had gone into arrhythmia from the stress. He looked at me at the foot of the bed, shook his head, and his eyes rolled back into his head. He went under, and they only just managed to get him back. They had to put him under a freezing blanket just to get his fever under control. It was five days before he was stable enough to transfer, and he was in and out of consciousness for two weeks in the Queen Liz. I went to see him after, when I was on leave and he was near being transferred to Headley Court, and I never want to see anything like that again. His clothes were hanging off him and he was so depressed I thought he might try something...he made it back to London, and kept writing back to me, then he met you"_

Looking at him intently, Bill raised his eyebrows.

"You saved him from feeling useless, Sherlock. You saved him, gave him a purpose, helped him get back all his confidence in his abilities. You might feel like he saved you, but I can tell you the feeling's mutual. Men like me are ten-a-penny, but men like John Watson are like gold; they don't come along very often, and you treated him like he had qualities you needed. You might not want to admit it, but you cherish him and his friendship, don't you?"

White and mute, Sherlock nodded. Smiling, Bill squeezed his shoulder.

"Come on. Come to mine for tea-my wife's making her gnocchi bake. My girls'll both want to hear how you met their Uncle John, too..." Bill chattered away as Sherlock felt the tension ebb away from between his shoulderblades. He didn't have to imagine anymore, thank God, but he could always keep a few of the images of John before he had known him, to remind him of how close their bond had been to never reaching fruition.

When John got home from Sweden, he found two bottles of milk in the fridge, a packet of his favourite biscuits in the cupboard and a box of specially-blended silver-leaf tea that made the finest cup of Assam he'd ever tasted. When he went to leave the kitchen, he noticed a CD box on the arm of his chair. Pressing play on his laptop, he started as music began to play. There were four movements; the first was _andante_, and conjoured up images of clouds scudding across a clear blue sky. The second was almost Oriental, full of the musical hum of bazaars and the endless burnt umber of an Afghan sky, and the third _scherzo_, a perfect microcosm of frenetic London. The last was calm and soothing, beautifully mellow, like a cosy front room and a cup of tea. He loved it, and was intrigued to see from whence it had come. The CD read' For John'. The note taped to the front, which he hadn't noticed as he was checking his e-mails, read simply:

'_You mean very much to me. You are my first best friend, and I very much hope you will be my last._

_-SH' _


	31. Interview

Chapter 25: Interviews

A/N: Apologies for the awful length of time without an update. Essay/conference/rehearsals are a kick in the bum for productivity in writing...Also, gosh! Over 150 reviews! Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this, much less the time to actually pen (type?) your thoughts on many and various plot bunnies.

This is a simple chapter on John's way with people. Other chapters coming up include a couple of unrelated bits and pieces on John's status as a charmer, and a possible experiment with a slightly darker John; if there's enough interest, at some point there could be a _much _ darker one...*horror movie music*. After that will come some be crack-y fluff.

No trigger or language warnings for this chapter, apart from the obvious fact that it's a murder case.

* * *

James flinched as Greg slammed his hand down upon the plywood table across from him.

"Where is she, Naylor? Where's Marie?!"

Glancing at his lawyer, James stubbornly shook his head.

"No comment."

The inspector shook his head, striding across the room to stand, straight and austere in front of the viewing window. "We know you did it, James. We can put you at the scene, and we know you had access to the means...all we don't know is why."

"Look, I didn't kill her! Your authority doesn't wash with me. You won't get any confessions out of me, today or any other day." He sat back in his seat, leaning back with a swagger that he didn't really feel inside.

"Interview suspended 11.55."

The policeman sighed, clicked a button on the tape recorder, and stood up.

He strode out into the viewing room and came back with a small and unassuming man. Blonde hair greying at the temples and a practical khaki jacket gave him the look of an amiable middle-aged uncle, or a well-liked science teacher. His dimply smile and kind face put James instantly at his ease, and he relaxed into his seat. His lawyer seemed less reassured, jumping visibly before smiling tightly and dipping his head in a fractional nod.

"Doctor Watson. How have you been since the Sochanik case?"

The doctor smiled. James could have sworn he'd seen a predatory gleam in his eye, but it was gone as soon as it had come, and he put it down to his fevered imagination.

Leaning forward, the new visitor held out his hand, introducing himself with a sturdy handshake.

James's first thought was that this Watson character was weirdly soft-spoken for such a supposedly fearsome man; the way his brief had reacted, you'd have thought the sky had fallen in. The doctor peered at him across the table, sizing him up before he spoke.

"What was she like, your Marie?

"Gentle. Funny, bubbly, sweet. Not the brightest hulb in the lightshow, but she was really good with kids. She was a brilliant nursery nurse. She liked her Lambrini, and her high heels-she was always going out dancing with her mates."

The man nodded thoughtfully, mentally jotting down this information. "Did you love her?"

James didn't have to force the wistful smile that played upon his face then, nor put on the dreamy tone in his voice or summon up the faraway look in his eyes.

"She was so beautiful, and when we met, it was love at first sight. I know it's a cliche, but it was like being hit between the eyes, it came on so suddenly."

"I know you loved her, but did you trust her? One of her friends described her as a 'total flirt', didn't she? Could you tell me, honestly, that you believed her when she said that was as far as it went?"

All of this was said very gently and with total calm, like the doctor was about to break bad news. James stiffened.

Realising that the game was up, he shook his head.

"No."

His brief was looking alarmed by this point, and the doctor flashed him a distinctly leonine smile, all teeth and menace.

He turned back to James. "What happened? Did you get to the point where you couldn't get past it any more? Where you couldn't handle not knowing for sure?"Taking James's silence as confirmation, he continued, "How did you do it?"

James sighed.

"I strangled her."

"Where is she now?"

"I buried her in Blakely Wood. In a proper grave, near the rhododendrons. They were her favourites..."

The doctor stood. As he turned to leave, James looked up.

"How did you know? That I was lying?"

John turned back to him as the constable opened the door to let him out.

"Lots of people forget how much death and suffering I've seen. When people grieve, whether it's for their sons who've died at war or people who've gone in hospital, they still talk about them in the present tense, to keep the memories at the forefront of their minds. You've already forgotten about her, so you talk about her in the past tense."

With that, he walked out, straight-backed, and disappeared from view, leaving James sitting with his hands resting in his lap. His brief resignedly packed up his papers and, with a brief, exasperated glance, left him to be escorted back to his cell.

He realised later that the words 'kill', 'murder' or 'confess' had never graced the doctor's lips.

* * *

A/N II: John is gentle and kind with most people, and I can see him feeling some sort of sympathy with James, including his understanding that he probably never meant to hurt Marie. However, I can also see him being apoplectic at the thought of a person doing that to someone they love and then concealing it. He's also smart enough to know that you can't frighten information out of someone who's confident and intelligent: you have to coax and inveigle it out.


	32. Hiding I

Sherlock Dari drabble Chapter 26: Hiding I

A/N: This is a role-reversed version of the Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton. In the original ACD short story, Milverton is a blackmailer who makes his living from such extortions; Milverton is killed by one of his victims, and Holmes stops Watson from intervening. If you want to know what happens next, you'll have to read on! It's set pre-Reichenbach and includes some slightly morally dubious!John. Also, it's rather long, so you may want to read it in bits...

A note on a small factoid in this chapter: I know that security clearance has to be redone when you leave a security-protected job, but I can well believe that Mycroft would research John's previous background and recommend it continue so that Watson can keep his reckless little brother safe...

* * *

It was 9 in the morning when the doorbell rang. Sherlock was perched at the table, prodding something purple that was smoking ominously. Glancing up, he smirked as Mrs Hudson appeared at the door. Their visitor thanked Martha, who disappeared down the stairs to go and do her shopping (_coat on, umbrella, shopping bag: cooking dinner for Mr Wilton tonight: good watch, no eternity ring, soft shoes in preparation for heels_). John stepped around the corner from the kitchen, extending a hand but stopping short. Sherlock rose from the stool, extending his head and then following through with his body to curve around the dividing wall, coming to a stop beside the rug.

Their visitor was a small, delicately-boned soldier in a slightly dusty desert uniform. Her mousy brown hair extended down her back in a neat ponytail, her deep brown eyes wide and curious. The patch on her shoulder and her beret told him she was from the Royal Logistics Corps; her wedding ring sparkled, but her eyes were dull under their inquisitive shine.

_Grieving. Lost husband. _

She turned to John first, deferring to him.

"Captain Watson, sir," she said, saluting, "Second Lieutenant Bethan Reynolds, Royal Logistics. Mr Holmes."

John solemnly returned the crisp salute, then smiled softly. "Just call me John. I haven't pulled rank in the two years since I left and I don't intend to start now. Take a seat."

Sherlock shot him a knowing look, John meeting it halfway with an answering smirk as they recalled their foray into 'Eyes Only' research at Baskerville.

Bethan Reynolds didn't catch it as she set down her pack and rolled up her beret to slip it under her epaulette. Her shoulders, previously rigidly set, sagged with relief as she sank into the armchair John had indicated. _His armchair_. _Interesting_.

"So, what can we do for you?"

Haltingly, she explained.

"My husband Graeme's a REME. _Was_ a REME...he went MIA three months ago. They were out on field maintenance duties and there was an explosion. They declared him dead soon after that, nobody else from his group survived. I went back to work a month ago-no point staying at home on base moping, so I've been sorting things out in Libya for a bit. Then I started getting weird letters, things about Graeme that only he and I would know, saying that if I paid money into a PO Box in Berkhamstead then I could get information that would lead us to him-they said the Taliban were holding him but they'd let him go for a fee. I ignored it, reckoned they'd extrapolated from what was common knowledge, but then a couple of days ago I got this. He didn't look like that when he went out, and I think it might be real. I know I could get into real trouble if it's not, and I know it's a long shot...they prey on your hope, don't they? I went to my CO, and he put me onto you. Said you'd be able to help find out if it was true or not, and who might know where he is."

Handing John a photograph, she perched anxiously on the edge of the chair. John's face darkened, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

Before Sherlock could open his mouth, John nodded.

"We'll help you, won't we Sherlock?"

Sherlock, noting the tightness in John's jaw, stated firmly, "Yes."

Bethan's face cleared, and she handed over the dossier, including the picture, picking up her pack and turning to leave. As was customary, John walked her to the door; Sherlock heard murmuring, and John's deliberate footsteps turning back up the stairs.

John's face was clouded and his head held poker-straight, as if he was daring Sherlock to challenge him. Sherlock spoke, surprisingly gently if the look of affection John gave him was anything to go by.

"You know just as she does that her husband is almost certainly not coming back, but you also know what it is like to feel hope that something will be different this time. You have lost enough colleagues and friends to know what it is like to grieve and see others grieving for their husbands or sons, and you want to give her closure because living without it feels like not knowing."

John gave him a bittersweet smile, nodding and spreading the papers out on the table before turning back to the kitchen to wash up the dinner plates.

The next morning they set out to Paddington, headed for the Oxfordshire base where the couple had been quartered. They had called ahead (without assistance from Mycroft, naturally), and had garnered a meeting with the camp commander thanks to John's persuasive tone and high-level security clearance. On arriving at the gates, they were waved through on John's ID, and marched through the camp at a fast clip into a large and well-kept red brick building. The young private led them up a sweeping set of plush-carpeted stairs and rapped smartly on an ornately carved white set of double doors.

"Enter."

"Captain John Watson and Mr Sherlock Holmes, sir."

"Thank you Jeffries-dismissed. Colonel James Prentiss; what can I do for you gentlemen?"

Standing up and accepting John's salute with one of his own, the Colonel directed them into two cushioned chairs at the front of the wide oak desk. He cut a lean, rangy figure as he settled back into his own desk chair, reclining his balding head to regard them in a slightly wary manner. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then realised that John had stood up in the same moment. The Colonel watched with some curiosity as John arranged himself in his usual 'I'm going to be stubborn' pose whilst keeping a deferential distance from a superior: it was clear to both of the others that he was planning to talk it through officer-to-officer in the hope that fruitful _connections_ might be made.

"Sir, we're here to talk about Second Lieutenant Reynolds and his wife, Second Lieutenant Reynolds of the RLC. We understand that Graeme was declared MIA presumed dead six weeks ago; is there any information you could give us on the incident which precipitated that?"

Stroking a hand over the strawberry blonde stubble peppering his jawline, the commander sat up attentively, a slight smirk brightening his features.

"Not unless I know why you're looking, Captain, and even then any details given would be commensurate with the enquirer's security clearance."

"Taking into account your first point: Second Lieutenant Reynolds came to us yesterday with a dossier of correspondence and visual material suggesting that her husband is being held by militants in the region; we need to establish the reliability of the evidence and whether or not the claim made in the correspondence holds water. As to your second point-"

At this point, John pulled a card out of the wallet holding his ID card and handed it over to the Colonel. The officer scanned it, eyes widening slightly as a look of respect crossed his features. Peering over the desk, Sherlock could just make out the words CLEARANCE: RESTRICTED stamped in red across the second ID card. He noticed that the dossier John exchanged for the card was noticeably slimmer than it had been yesterday, and deduced that John, not wanting to get the young widow into trouble, had removed the parts demanding a ransom.

"Well, that changes things. I can positively say to you now that there is no way Second Lieutenant Reynolds could have survived. The explosion was from a hand-held mortar which hit an armoured Jeep." (John winced.) "Quite. Even a Warrior would have been lucky to withstand that kind of impact. Having done DNA testing, the results of which only became available today, his presence in the vehicle was confirmed, and there were no blood trails or disturbances around the vehicle suggesting he was pulled or dragged. The claims made here are simply a puerile attempt to capitalise on the sad loss of an excellent soldier."

Nodding, John sat down. There was a moment of silence as Sherlock absorbed the rapid shift in John's language and delivery from their banter in the taxi earlier to the terminology and directness of the battlefield. Then he noticed John looking far too amused, collected himself, and held the Colonel's slightly confused gaze.

"Are there any other reported cases of such attempts at emotional...exploitation?"

(John looked satisfied at the carefully chosen term.)

"Not in my jurisdiction, but there has been some mess gossip about similar issues in the Black Watch and the Yorkshires."

Nodding once, Sherlock stood up sharply, John following suit. Salutes were exchanged, followed by handshakes, and the two men turned to leave.

"Before you go...if you meet Second Lieutenant Reynolds again, do give her my condolences. We bandy about the phrase that a soldier was 'popular with his colleagues' quite a lot in those statements we give, but Graeme really was well-liked. Many of the soldiers he served with were in their late teens and early twenties, so he was very much a steady older brother to them. We were very sorry indeed to lose him."

John acknowledged the interjection with a sad smile, and the two of them left to head out to the edge of the base and their hired car.

* * *

A/N II: Like/don't like? Would you like to hear more? Whatever the answer is, please do let me know!


	33. Author's Note Number Four

Apologies for the lateness of this chapter...I am working four days a week alongside my postgrad studies, so updating will be more sporadic for a while, I'm afraid. I'm hoping to post the next part of the current story by this time next week. Thank-you again for reading everybody!


	34. Charm I

Charm

A/N: I've decided to put the rest of the Milverton story arc on hold for now, given the fact that there are some high-profile and deeply sad court cases going on both here in the UK and in the States. As a result of this (and having finished my last piece of coursework until Dissertation Day befalls me), here be fluff. A PRHO (Pre-Registration House Officer) is the old name for an F1 junior doctor, which means someone who has just graduated from medical school and has begun undertaking rotations in a hospital environment to train and gain experience. Consultants (the higher-ups, at the same point as a senior Attending) tend to use Miss, Mr or Mrs as a title, rather than Dr. Also: as someone whose grandparents are all ill in their own ways (one with severe dementia), this chapter and the next are both written with as much compassion as I can muster. That said, there is a bit of gallows humour, so I'm sorry if it offends anyone! If it does, please let me know and I'll edit it out. **bookgirlfan**'s review made me think-none of the medical students or doctors I've ever heard would say the exact things that crop up in the bit about what people at the hospital call Gerontology, but I can imagine there are quite a few salty nicknames for things floating about! Quite a lot of medical student chat comes with a healthy dose of dark humour, more as a coping mechanism than anything.

* * *

Mel looked up from the discharge forms spread out of the desk in front of her as she heard the familiar creak of the double doors at the end of the corridor. Smirking at Jeannie, she turned and whispered, "Fresh meat!"

Her suspicions proved correct as an impossibly young-looking man poked his head 'round the corner. His slim stature and dimply grin gave him the look of a mischievous schoolboy, and his wide blue eyes gave him an air of innocence. She could tell by the meticulously ironed shirt and the box-fresh trainers that he was a new starter, and resolved to induct him with the obligatory prank before the day was out.

"Hello! I'm John, one of the new pre-reg junior doctors? I'm looking for Mr Salim."

He gave her a winning, sunny smile so big that she couldn't help but smile back at him, taking the hand he proffered and shaking it vigorously.

"Mel Eaves, Senior Ward Sister. This is Jeannie Heywood, our Senior Charge Nurse."

He shook Jeannie's hand with the same sure grip, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder and striding off down the corridor after her as she showed him to the staff room.

Most of the students, craving what they saw as the drama and adrenaline of A&E or surgery, lumped Gerontology together with Psychiatry and Dermatology as the departments you went into if you couldn't hack the 'real' medical work-looking after the minor problems and age-related illnesses that came with getting older. The nicer ones referred to it as 'biscuit-and-blether' medicine; those with a bit less compassion called it 'The Graveyard Shift' or, worse, D.R.A.T.T.T.-'**D**ottled, **R**eally **A**ncient, and **T**alking **T**otal **T**waddle.' As he took his tour around the ward, though, Mel could see that John would fit right in with the rest of the staff, for whom working with the elderly was a chance to keep people's lives dignified for as long as possible. She'd seen her own mum slide into dementia's inelegant and grasping clutches, noticing what else was missing of her old mum every time she visited. She had switched to Gerontology from Respiratory then, with the acute feeling that even if she couldn't get her mum back she could damn well try to do right by her patients.

By the third day, it had become apparent that while John's hopes for his career lay in surgery, he was also an excellent medical doctor. She watched proudly as the young man, struggling to get a cannula into Mrs Williams' arm, put the nervous woman at her ease whilst simultaneously answering her daughter's questions and keeping a sneaky eye on how much was left of her lunch. As he left with a cheery, "Bye, Marjorie! See you later, my darling!," Mel caught sight of Linda Williams' eyes following the young man down the corridor with a suspiciously watery sheen.

When she went in to give Marjorie another cuppa after visiting hours had ended, the older woman turned to her, grasping her arm firmly and looking up at her. Her fiercely intelligent eyes shone in the dim evening light as Mel set her cup at her right hand. Her Welsh lilt bubbled up out of her throat, strong and reedy at the same time, as she said with a smile, "That new young doctor's very nice, isn't he? He came in before he left to see how I was getting on, even though that lovely Indian man's my consultant. He makes you feel sort of-well, sort of like you're the only person that matters to him when he's talking to you, doesn't he? He sat right there, right on the bed, and held my hand while he was talking to me, and wouldn't leave until he was sure I was alright for the evening. Charming! Handsome, too-he looks like a film star, don't you think? Like, oh, what's his name? The one with the blue eyes? Paul Newman! Him when he was very young! I'm surprised half you girls haven't fallen for him yet!"

She giggled, taking a long sip of tea, her keen eyes crinkling at the corners as she took in the fond amusement on Mel's face. "In case you haven't noticed, Marjorie, I'm already married! You scarlet woman!"

She left Mrs Williams to her tea as she padded back to the desk, her tinkling laughter dancing in her ears as she looked askance at Jeannie.

"You're blushing! Don't tell me you've got the hots for John..."

Jeannie looked away pointedly at that, mumbling something about him being 'a really nice guy' and 'charming' and 'charisma'. Mel snorted loudly into her coffee, turning the page on the last analgesics form of the shift.


	35. Compassion

Compassion

A/N: Erm, definitely not fluff. It's quite sad, actually-sorry all!

* * *

When Mel came in at noon after her two days off, Jamila, one of the young SHOs, was standing at the desk looking drawn. Bridget, one of the other nurses, was sitting with her head down, concentrating hard on the page in front of her. As she looked over to the left, she saw that the curtains in Room 2 were drawn.

_Oh dear_.

It was only when Linda stepped out of the room, straight-backed and newly dry-eyed, that she let herself sigh.

"What happened, Jams?"

"Early this morning, she took a turn for the worse. Her kidney function had come up a bit, but her heart had been on the blink for a while. She'd been looking awful overnight, so when I came in this morning Bridge asked me to give her daughter a call. John came in for his shift at seven, and by eight she was gone."

"Who's certifying?"

Jamila indicated the doors to Room 2, swinging open as they spoke. John trudged out, eyes red and face pinched and pale. His shoulders were hunched as he went over to Linda. Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, he spoke calmly but softly.

"I promise we'll take very good care of her."

Linda gave a watery smile, allowing Bridget to lead her through to the relatives' room.

John cocked his head to one side. "Mel? Can you come and check I've got everything right, please?"

She nodded once, following him into a room that was blazing with early morning sunshine.

She watched as he checked Mrs Williams' breathing, pulse and reflexes, murmuring quietly to her. She realised with a jolt that he was reassuring Marjorie, telling her what he was doing and why. She knew colleagues who talked to patients when they were 'laying them out', and it was quite common as a coping mechanism.

His hands were totally steady, his eyes dry and his movements professional and sure, but his eyes were soft and his fingers gentle. He patted the back of Marjorie's hand before taking off his gloves and straightening up. Even after twenty years of nursing, she found herself with a little lump in her throat as John sniffed once before turning to go.

Half an hour later, with all the paperwork completed, she went looking for the errant Dr Watson. She found him in the staff room, staring vacantly into space and twisting his stethoscope in his hands. Plonking herself down beside him, Mel slung her arm around his shoulders, watching him curl into himself.

"I should be more professional than this, Mel. I should have seen it coming-I knew she was badly ill, and that we weren't looking to cure her, but I still got att-attached." His voice cracked on the last word and he sniffed, swiping angrily at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Be realistic, John. This is the first patient you've lost, correct?" He nodded. "This is your first placement as a doctor responsible for some level of patient care, correct?" He nodded again. "Then how the hell d'you expect not to be affected by it? I'd be worried if you weren't! Do you know what Marjorie said about you? She said you spent time with her, held her hand, showed her that she was important to you. That's what matters in our line of work. If you can't mix the medical skills with the personal ones then you end up a crappy doctor. You said it yourself: we weren't looking to cure her, but you helped to make the last few days she spent on the ward better ones."

John murmured, clearly unconvinced, but stood up as Mr Salim appeared at the door, looking down at his charge with a small smile.

"Sorry to call on you so soon after what happened this morning, but we've got another three patients coming up from acute receiving, so it's all hands to the pump. Are you ready?"

John nodded briskly, loping off after the consultant in the direction of Room 5.


End file.
